The Story of a Social Reject at Knapman High
by Saturday
Summary: His troubles all began on that fateful Wednesday afternoon in the middle of February... [rated for slash, swearing, and far too many musical references]
1. Prologue

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Author's Note: I was getting a serious craving for some good Sprace. AHH. I dunno how this fic is gonna turn out, but I'm giving it a shot. Just a prologue so far, but it's eventually gonna be more. Hooray!

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Disclaimer: I own Donna Cadnum ... and that's it. Heh. Pathetic.

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Dedication: To singin'-newsies-goil, 'cause her birthday was on the eighth and I _missed it! _I have the idea for her one-shot, but it's probably not coming out for a while, considering the load of homework and crap I've been dealing with lately... ;-) Forgive me, Liz?

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Prologue

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It was the day after his friend shaved his head that Spot Conlon's popularity ended.

No, I mean it was seriously gone. Nonexistent. Dead.

His troubles all began on that fateful Wednesday afternoon in the middle of February. He was in the locker room after hockey practice, listening to his friend Oscar retelling the story of how his girlfriend dumped him last Friday — and, being the arrogant bastard he was, Spot decided it was necessary to inform the entire team that he had yet to have a girl break off a relationship with him. Cocky grin in place, teammates squirming with envy, and he was feeling fine. He flexed his incredible abdominal muscles a little to add to the effect.

Jack Kelly had never liked it when someone was feeling happier than he was, so he decided to hold Spot to his word. He made a bet with Spot that his current girlfriend, Donna Cadnum, would dump him before the end of the week — loser has his head shaved. And, being the arrogant bastard he was, Spot decided to accept.

The next day, Donna (with long, auburn hair at the moment) took him aside in the hall and said quietly, "We need to talk." It was those four simple words that sent a chill to his heart — not because he cared about Donna (he had been planning on dumping her just to see how she would react, anyway) but because he was going to have to lose all of his beautiful, silky, light brown hair that complemented his clear, gray eyes so incredibly well.

Damn...

Spot had never been dumped by a girl before. He had never had his head shaved by an 18-year-old boy with a Norelco before, either, and neither was an experience he was eager to repeat.

So saying, the next morning he was determined to wear a thick sort of beanie to hide his new hairstyle (or lack there of) all day. Unfortunately, school rules proclaimed that he must remain hatless throughout the entire school day, so he was forced to show the world his smooth, white head.

Within an hour, he realized that he had just been shoved from the top of the social pyramid to find himself hairless, girl-less, and sharing a lunch table with the social outcasts of the school. Needless to say, he was feeling very sorry for himself by the time dismissal came around.

This was going to take a _lot_ of adjusting.

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Author's Note: I just realized how similar this is to "Mirror, Mirror". I'm really running out of plotlines, aren't I? Lol, anyway, please leave a review! (More coming soon.)

-Saturday


	2. Chapter One

**Author's Note:** Sorry it took so long to update. I kind of forgot about this fic... and then my craving for SpRace kicked in, so I'm back. I apologize for the delay.

**Disclaimer: **The newsies belong to Disney, any song lyrics belong to their respective bands/artists, and I own Donna Cadnum, Tara Avery, and Amber Rosenthal. Oh yeah, baby. Three whole OC's. I rock.

**Lover, I'm on the street  
Gonna go where the bright lights and the big city meet  
With a red guitar on fire  
Desire **

She's a candle burning in my room  
Yeah I'm like the needle, needle and spoon  
Over the counter with a shotgun  
Pretty soon everybody's got one  
And the fever when I'm beside her  
Desire, desire...

-"Desire," U2

* * *

The first thing Spot noticed about the outcasts was that they all had hair. Especially Bumlets, who was rather alarmed when he realized that an odd, bald teenager on the end of the lunch table had been raptly staring at his hair for the past twenty minutes or so. Spot couldn't help himself. The Hispanic boy's hair was just so clean and black and long and thick and glossy, and it made Spot miss his own hair very much — even more so than usual, if possible. He ran a hand over the smooth top of his head and grumpily resumed eating his sandwich, which tasted suspiciously like burnt cardboard.

All in all, he was not having a particularly good time dealing with his new lack of friends. The social outcasts were never outright mean to him when they took the time to notice he was there; they just gave him small smiles and continued to talk, polite but altogether uninterested. Spot was not used to being ignored in this fashion, and this sort of behavior did not please him at all. He put down his sandwich and pouted.

There were eight main outcasts (not including Spot, because he was still in denial that he was anything but the most popular boy at Knapman Regional High School), and they all seemed friendly enough. Their unpopularity was somehow magnified by the fact that they all hung together in one clump of rejects, but when you looked at each one individually, they seemed all right.

On the other hand, it was easy to tell why each boy had been ostracized from normal high school life. In a nutshell, the group members stood thus: Racetrack Higgins — unofficial leader, complete smartass, and well-known fag. To be avoided at all costs. He was in Spot's English class, but he didn't really want to think about that. Snitch Lawrence was a kleptomaniac (although he denied it vehemently) and an overly enthusiastic member of the school band, which was terrible and consisted of approximately fifteen members. Sad. Mark Shanley had been officially dubbed "Skittery" because of his acute paranoia, wide, dark eyes, and tendency to shriek "I didn't do it!" when startled. It was common knowledge that he was an escaped convict on the run — another fact that was denied vehemently.

Bumlets Paredes was a dancer, which had automatically ruined any chances of him ever being thought of as anything but a fag and a sissy. He was incredibly good-looking, with a wide smile and a sweet disposition, but he was a dancer, and that was that. Case closed. His best friend was Swifty Davis, who was rumored to know more about computers than the lab teacher herself, and who had a subtle sense of humor that was only appreciated by the rest of the outcasts. To everyone else, he was simply too boring to be noticed.

Mush Stuart was the only boy in the school chorus, which greatly disturbed the rest of the school. He was loud, grinning, and good-natured, but his sneakers were definitely bright yellow with purple zigzags down the sides. Ew. He could usually be seen with Kid Blink Taft, who was missing an eyeball. He was obviously radioactive and highly contagious, so people tried to keep away from him as much as they possibly could.

The last two members of the group had, over time, been painted as essentially one person, and that was Specs and Dutchy. Or rather, Sputchy. They had been best friends since before anyone could remember, and seemed to be attached at the hip. Both being committed artists, highly talented pianists, and renowned "four-eyes", it was no wonder their personalities were so compatible. Out of all of the outcasts, Spot like Specs and Dutchy best for reasons he couldn't identify.

Not that he was choosing favorites or anything. He wanted nothing to do with them, and they wanted nothing to do with him. It was quite simple, really.

At the moment, Skittery was recounting his adventures at the Nashoba Valley Ski Area, much to Snitch's displeasure. Spot tried very hard not to be amused—Snitch looked like he had just swallowed something particularly nasty, and he kept clearing his throat loudly to try to interrupt the story. Skittery ignored him.

"...So we're standing in line for the lift, and Snitch is on a bit of a slope so he keeps sliding backwards every so often," he was saying, gesticulating wildly to add to his story. "I tried to pull him back when I noticed he was slipping, but this one time I didn't see, and he just sort of—well, slid back into the line—"

"Skittery!" Snitch yelped. "Don't _tell_ 'em!"

"Aw c'mon, Snitch, I told you when I went to my aunt's wedding with toothpaste all over my ass," Mush pointed out.

Snitch shook his head, eyes wide. "That was different!"

"How?"

"I'm not going to—"

"AS JACKASS OF THE MONTH, I COMMAND YOU TO IGNORE THE PLEAS OF OUR THIEVING LITTLE FRIEND AND FINISH THE TALE," said Race in a loud, booming voice, and Skittery quickly obeyed (after Snitch had had the chance to flick Racetrack's ear for calling him a "thieving little friend").

"Well, there was this kid behind us," said Skittery with a grin. "He couldn't have been more than eight."

"He was VERY YOUNG," said Snitch seriously.

"And for some reason, he convinced himself that Snitch was someone he knew named Carter. So he was like, 'HEY, CARTER! I didn't know you knew how to ski—ooh, nice hat! I thought yours was red, though. Did you get a new one? I never see you anymore—WHY AREN'T YOU TALKING TO ME, CARTER? DO YOU HATE ME? AHHHHH, CAAAAARTERRRRR—"

"All right, we get the point!" Specs laughed.

Skittery smiled. "We ended up cutting about ten people in line to get the hell away from the kid," he said. "It was great."

"_No_, it was _not!"_ Snitch pouted. By now he was roughly the color of a ripe tomato, and he turned quite possibly redder when Dutchy asked how Snitch had reacted to the boy's ranting.

"He fell over again." said Skittery, and Snitch slapped him. "And cried," he added, winking, and Snitch slapped him again.

"All right, I think Snitch is going to have a nervous breakdown, so I'm changing the subject," said Swifty. "How goes the party-planning, Sputchy?"

By now, Spot was very alarmed. He had had no idea that these outcasts were intelligent enough to carry on a normal conversation, let alone actually go skiing. He had always though of them as sort of barbaric—too stupid to understand themselves or anything around them. He had been wrong, apparently, for here they were actually being more civilized than his old friends.

He looked over at the other table where the popular crowd was seated—Jack Kelly, Sarah Jacobs, Oscar Delancey, Oscar's girlfriend Amber Rosenthal, Morris Delancey, Morris' girlfriend Tara Avery, Donna Cadnum (blonde today), and David Jacobs (who was incredibly popular, although nobody could figure out why). Jack was making some sort of disgusting mixture with his lunch, much to the amusement of the rest of the table. As Spot watched, Oscar reached forward with his fork and took a bite.

"Hey—kid-with-no-hair, you deaf?"

Spot, brought back to earth with an unpleasant lurch, and glowered at the tall, skinny outcast waving a hand in front of his face. "Can I help you?" Spot demanded.

"Hark! He has a voice!" Snitch sang dramatically. "I was beginning to think he was mute _and _deaf, but apparently he is neither. Oh, what twists and turns this life holds in store for us—"

"Aw, put a lid on it, Snitch," Specs laughed. He turned to Spot. "Dutchy and I are having a party tonight, and we were wondering if you wanted to come."

"Why?" Spot asked skeptically, raising an eyebrow.

"Well you seemed…" Specs trailed off awkwardly, avoiding Spot's gaze.

"Seemed what? Like one of you?"

Specs looked rather taken aback. "I guess," he said.

"Drop it, Specs, he ain't in," said Race without looking up. "Jackass thinks he's above a stupid outcast party, y'know? Doesn't want to damage what little popularity he has left."

"Excuse me?" said Spot in what he hoped was a dangerous voice.

"You heard me." Race sent him a withering look. "It's Conlon, right? Spot Conlon, Mr. Too-Absorbed-In-Himself-To-Notice-He's-Not-The-King-Of-The-Universe—yet. 'Cause I'll be damned if you're not, in the end."

"What the fuck is that supposed to mean?" Spot demanded, unsure of how to react to this type of abuse.

"You've got it all fucking made, dontcha?" Race continued calmly. "You think you're gonna stay a social reject just because you've _got no hair!_ It'll _grow back_, for Chrissake, and they'll be just as willin' to accept you back into their stupid little clique." He paused. "Hell, for all I know you still _are _in their stupid little clique, and you're just here so you can find some new trivia about us freaks to humiliate us with."

"With which to humiliate us," Dutchy corrected gently. "And try to tone it down a little, Race, the cafeteria staff're giving you funny looks."

"Don't invite 'im, Sputchy, he ain't worth it," said Race.

"FINE!" Spot exploded. "I didn't WANT to go anyway, ASSHOLE."

"Good. Goodbye." And with that, Racetrack picked up his tray and strolled across the cafeteria to throw out the remains of his lunch.

It was in this way that Spot Conlon fell in love.

He had never told the rest of the popular group that he was bisexual; he figured it would be a bit of a turn-off, and the last thing he wanted was to be dumped out of the popular clique for stupid reason like that. But he had never been insulted with such passion before, and he found Racetrack's courage incredibly sexy.

Swifty smiled at Spot. "Don't mind him; he's just been PMS-ing a lot lately. He's usually a lot more..."

"Creative with his insults," said Bumlets. "Honestly, I got him cheesed off at me the other day..." He shuddered, which made his hair sway nicely in the light. "It was incredible. He kept switching between Italian and English, but even when he was talking in English, I had no idea what he was saying half the time. I've never been more terrified in my entire life; I thought he was going to come and pour kerosene down my throat in the night."

Swifty nodded fervently. "It's true. I helped him lock all the windows."

Despite himself, Spot was very thankful that he had not been exposed to this kind of abuse from the mean Italian midget. There were too many windows in his house that were too high for him to reach.

Specs smiled. "But never mind him; we're not going to allow our sadly antisocial friend to get in the way of potential friendships," he said genially, bending down to reach into his bag. "You're still invited, you know."

"You're such a little girl scout, Specs," said Dutchy fondly.

Specs paused. "...But I'm a guy."

"Don't be so sexist," said Blink with a frown. "Just because the term 'girl scout' implies an entirely female membership, it's incredibly presumptuous of you to assume that a boy can't be one too." He turned slightly pink and bent down over his tray so that they couldn't see his face, and Mush burst out laughing.

Specs shook his head slightly and handed a slip of paper to Spot, smiling apologetically. "Quick, read it before Race comes back."

They all looked over at the trashcans, where Racetrack was apparently swearing at a terrified-looking freshman who was much taller than him. Heh. Spot glanced back down at the piece of paper in his hand, and felt a smile slide unbidden across his face.

Printed in scrawling, loopy letters across the top were the words: **In honor of Graham "Snitch" Lawrence's EIGHTEENTH birthday— **Underneath was a recent picture of Snitch attempting to juggle what looked like a hard-boiled egg, a roll of Scotch tape, and a pair of socks. He didn't seem to be having much success. Beneath, the words continued: **—and the fact that he hasn't grown up at all. **The location, time, and date were printed below.

Spot looked up, grinning. "Those are some pretty kickass computer graphics," he said. "You do that, Swifty?"

"Hell, no. That's a real picture; Skittery found it in his stash of porno magazines a few weeks ago."

"I don't read porn," said Skittery tiredly, punching Swifty's arm. It seemed they had gone over this many times. Spot nodded and decided to avoid spending too much time with this guy in the future.

"So can you come?" asked Dutchy, smiling at him.

Spot shrugged. "If I don't have anything else planned, I'll try," he said vaguely.

"Great," said Dutchy.

Spot stood up, half the food still on his tray, and headed over to the trashcans to throw it out. He really didn't want to go to that party. He couldn't risk being seen in public with the social rejects of the school; it would completely exterminate any chances he ever had of regaining his former social status. He tried to ignore the popular table as he passed it, but he couldn't help looking over when he heard Amber saying to Donna, "Don't you just hate Frieda Selden's face? Look at her! Her zits are, like, symmetrical!"

Oh, what he wouldn't give to be back at that table...

-----

"So," said Mrs. Conlon conversationally as she loaded the dishwasher. "How was school, sweetums?"

Spot, who was halfway up the stairs to his room, froze and stared at her. _Sweetums?_ "It sucked beyond comprehension," he said slowly, wondering what she was getting at.

"That's wonderful, shnuckums!" she said distractedly, dumping a few plates into a random drawer and kicking it closed. "I'm so proud of you, hunny-bun! You're so SMART!"

What the fuck.

"All right, what's with the freaky terms of endearment?" Spot demanded, pulling himself up onto the kitchen table. "I'm not three, you know, mom. Eighteen is a little old for 'shnuckums', whatever the hell that means."

"Oh, I know how old you are, tootsie," said Mrs. Conlon, smiling lovingly at him and trying to pinch his cheek. "Oh no, what happened to this plate? It must have gotten chipped in the wash—"

"TOOTSIE!"

"I'm really having doubts about this new dishwasher. Look! Look at this fork! There's still remnants of mashed potatoes on it! Wait a minute. Who was eating mashed potatoes with a fork?"

"...TOOTSIE!"

"Have you seen your father? He'll probably be able to fix this—Oh dear, _three _chipped plates. This is absolutely t—"

"Mom, I think it's time we had a little heart-to-heart," said Spot, still recovering from his initial shock at being called 'tootsie' by his own mother.

Adeline Conlon looked up at him, eyes wide. Everyone had always said that she and her son had the same eyes, but Spot didn't like to think about that. In fact, he didn't like to think about being related to his mother at all. "You... You want to talk to _me_? A mother-son chat?" she asked softly.

Spot sighed. "Yeah, I guess. Could you please explain why you, over the course of the past twenty seconds, have managed to call me 'sweetums', 'shnuckums', 'hunny-bun', and..." He couldn't bring himself to say the last word, so he settled with mouthing it and hoping that she would figure out what he meant.

"...Well don't those names make you feel all cozy inside?" his mother asked.

Spot stared at her. "No, they make me want to slit my wrists," he said seriously.

"Oh." She seemed confused for a minute, and then scurried over to the counter and retrieved a small, paperback book. Spot squinted at it the title. _Taking Care Of Teenagers, _by Julia Stone.

Oh, dear GOD.

"As your teenage boy grows older, he may try to detach himself from the family and spend more time in his room or with his friends," Mrs. Conlon read aloud. "You must not allow this to happen. By using special pet names when addressing him, you may be able to give him the feeling that he is reliving his childhood years. This will make your teenager want to remain at home as long as possible—"

"Are you bloody MAD!" Spot yelped, unable to take any more.

Mrs. Conlon looked up at him. "No, darling. I'm just trying to do what's best for you," she said.

Spot exhaled loudly and closed his eyes. "If you want to use a 'pet name' or something for me, just call me _Spot._ I think 'shnuckums' is a little extreme, not to mention disgusting beyond belief."

"Oh no, sweetie-pie!" she gasped. "I can't call you Spot! Here, listen to this," and she spent a few more minutes flipping through her little book before finding the passage she wanted. "'In the event that your son develops a special school nickname, never, under any circumstances, allow it to be used in the house. This will allow a gang-like atmosphere to develop in your home, and the homey mood you have worked to create will be destroyed.'"

Spot stared at her. "That is such a complete load of sh—"

"Baseball game tonight!" John Conlon announced, coming into the room and smiling at the pair of them. He looked like an exact copy of Spot, except for the fact that the eighteen year old was much shorter and much skinnier. "Red Sox vs. the Yankees. It's gonna be great."

"So?" Adeline demanded. "Baseball is a bad influence on our home, John!"

Mr. Conlon didn't appear to hear her. "What's that, Addy?" he asked, nodding at the book she was still clutching. "A new Jane Austen? Y'know, I really don't like her style. That movie 'Emma' was—"

"No, it's not Jane Austen!" Mrs. Conlon interrupted. "It's a book on making a better home for our precious son, Gabriel."

"Spot," said Spot firmly.

"Mister Freckle-Nose," said Mrs. Conlon, pinching his cheek.

"HAHA! I like that," said Mr. Conlon, and he opened the fridge and took out leftovers from last night's dinner. "Afternoon snack #1," he said happily. "So. Who's up for a little baseball tonight? If Ortiz gets another grand slam, I'm just going to—"

"I can't!" said Spot loudly, interrupting him. "I'm, uh... I'm going out with some friends."

He didn't want to go to the outcast part. At all. But, looking around at his simpering mother and baseball-obsessed father, what choice did he have? Besides, he'd rather look at Bumlets' hair than Mr. Conlon's lack thereof. Ahh.

-----

"Well, prom king, I see you decided to come after all."

Spot glared at Kid Blink from over the neck of his jacket, trying not to shiver. It was extremely cold out, and it looked like Dutchy's house was the kind that was deep in the woods with an unnecessarily long driveway. "Yeah," he said irritably.

Kid Blink seemed unperturbed by the other boy's obvious bad mood. He locked his car and put the keys into the pocket of his fleece, pulling the sleeves down over his fingertips to try to keep them warm. "Is that your car there?" he asked conversationally, nodding at the black Mercedes Spot was locking up.

"No, I decided to take Oscar Delancey's car instead," Spot answered acidly, his voice dripping with sarcasm.

Blink grinned at him. "You're a bit of an asshole, aren't you?" he said as they began to walk.

Spot chose to ignore this, instead peering down the driveway at the house that was supposedly at the end of it. "Why the hell did this driveway have to be so fucking long?" he demanded.

"I dunno," said Blink, shrugging. "It kind of sucks now, but when it's colder out, it freezes over and we all play ice hockey on the weekends. It rocks."

Spot snorted. _"You_ play ice hockey?"

"Yep," said Blink.

The pair of them lapsed into awkward silence as they made their way up the driveway. They passed an orange piece of shit with mud streaks across the sides and duct tape all over one of the windows, and Spot lifted an eyebrow at it.

"Mush's," said Blink by way of explaination. "Snitch hit a baseball into the window this summer, and none of us have been able to afford to fix it. We're all broke. He doesn't mind, though; he says that driving around in an old, broken-down car builds character, y'know?"

"...Right," said Spot slowly.

RETARDED.

After what felt like ten minutes, they reached the end of the driveway and the disappointingly normal house at the end. After all this walking, Spot had been expecting a palace. This neighborhood sucked, man.

"Ah, nothing like some good exercise to clear the senses!" Blink sighed, stepping forward and ringing the doorbell. Spot decided not to answer. This kid was messed up.

The door opened, and Dutchy leaned out, cringing slightly against the cold air. "Ahh—come in, guys. Are your fingers completely falling off?"

"Not yet," said Blink. "Should be a few more minutes, I estimate."

"Excellent." Dutchy let them in, closing the door behind them, and took their coats with a flourish, which made Blink laugh.

Spot stared around the house, eyebrows raised so high they were in danger of disappearing into his hair. In the middle of the living room directly to his left, Mush and Skittery were singing a perfectly harmonized version of "The Sound of Silence" by Simon and Garfunkel, complete with hand motions and everything. Bumlets was doing pirouettes next to Swifty in front of the television, where the end of Moulin Rouge was playing. Swifty was sobbing uncontrollably, and, when he stopped spinning long enough that his head looked like more than just a dark blur, Spot realized that Bumlets was, too. On the steps directly in front of them was Race, Specs, and Snitch, who were all playing poker, and over all this, Rage Against The Machine's "Wake Up" was pounding from the speakers.

"Skittery chose the music," said Dutchy while hanging up their coats in the closet. "He's not an angry person, but he likes angry music."

Spot stared at him. "He's singing Simon and Garfunkle, though."

"He's very well-rounded," said Blink, shrugging.

"BLINK'S HERE!" Mush exclaimed, running over and throwing his arms around the other boy. "You're late," he chided, nuzzling his nose into Blink's neck.

"I had to wrestle my car from my older brother," Blink answered, grinning. "Please let go of me, fag, you're strangling me."

"Sorry." Mush smiled at him.

"The greatest thing you'll ever learn is just to love... and be loved in return..." sang the television set.

"I CAN'T TAKE THIS!" Swifty cried, grabbing a nearby pillow and smushing his face into it, shoulders heaving.

"What, exactly, are they doing?" Spot asked.

Mush looked over at them. "They're having a romantic movie marathon," he said. "They're just finishing 'Moulin Rouge', and next they're gonna do 'West Side Story', 'Shakespeare in Love', and 'Titanic'. Oh, and Bumlets is trying to see how many pirouettes he can do in a row."

"I figured," said Spot.

"Hey," said a voice with a thick New York accent. "What the hell are _you_ doin' here?"

Spot looked over at the speaker, identifying him as the one and only Racetrack Higgins. _Be still my beating heart. _"Evenin', asshole," he said pleasantly.

Race started up from the steps, but Specs grabbed his wrist. "Don't be an idiot, Race. You know Dutchy's parents will kill you if you do any damage to their house while they're out tonight, and I daresay I'll miss you," he said with a bit of a grin.

"NOO! DON'T DIE! YOU'RE OKAY YOU'RE OKAY YOU'RE OKAY, DON'T LEAVE CHRISTIAN ALL ALONE! AHHHHH!" Bumlets yelled, dropping to his knees and sobbing unrestrainedly into Swifty's shoulder.

"Wow," said Spot.

Blink grinned at him. "Haven't you ever seen 'Moulin Rouge'?" he asked. "It makes everyone cry. The only person I've ever met who didn't cry when he watched that movie was my great-great grandfather, and he was half-deaf and completely blind."

"I'm not the crying type," said Spot firmly.

Race muttered something from the stairs that made Snitch start laughing hysterically, but Spot decided to ignore it. He looked over at Skittery, who was bouncing around playing air guitar to Rage. "I guess he's moved on from Simon and Garfunkel," he said bemusedly.

Snitch looked over at Skittery. "Yeah, he's a very inconsistent kind of guy," he said. "You wanna play poker, Blink?"

"Nah, I'm gonna watch 'West Side Story' with Swifty and Bumlets," said Blink. He grinned. "I like to be in Amer-i-ca!" he sang, and sort of skipped out of the room with Mush close behind him.

"All right, I'm folding," said Specs. "Good luck, Snitch, you're on your own."

"WAAAAKE UUUUUUUUUP! WAAAAAAKE UUUUUUUUUP!" screamed Skittery with the music, still hopping up and down.

"THAT WAS THE SADDEST MOVE I'VE EVER SEEN!" Swifty blubbered as he ejected "Moulin Rouge" and put in "West Side Story".

Needless to say, Spot was more than a little overwhelmed. He sighed a small sigh that he couldn't hear over the loud music, glanced at Racetrack again over his hand of cards, and sat down awkwardly behind Mush on the couch. He had never heard of "West Side Story" and he certainly wasn't looking forward to a mushy, romantic musical, but there wasn't much else to do.

Except kill his voice with Skittery. Once, in sixth grade, Spot had tried to sing the end of "Rape Me" by Nirvana, but all the screaming had caused him to lose his voice for a week and a half. He wasn't exactly eager to repeat the experience.

So he leaned back against the huge, fluffy pillows and prepared to be bored to death with Swifty's movie.

At 7:15, Race came and sat down next to him to watch too. Both of them carefully avoided making eye-contact, and made sure their thighs didn't brush against each other on the couch.

At 7:30, Snitch impressed them all by reciting Anita's incredibly Spanish name. "Anita Josefina Teresita Beatriz del Carmen Margarita, etcetera, etcetera!" he said with Bernardo. His Puerto Rican accent was very nice.

At 7:45, Blink tried to do the "America" dance. Racetrack announced that he had been scarred for life. Blink smacked him.

At 8:00, Bumlets was bombarded with pillows because he wouldn't stop singing along with the songs. He nearly suffocated before he was rescued by Swifty, and the pair of them sat down together on the floor and continued to sing along.

At 8:30, Skittery turned off Rage and curled up on the floor next to Snitch to watch the movie. "I don't want to be the only person not crying when it ends," he said solemnly. Spot assured him that _he_ was going to cry at the end, and Skittery laughed and shook his head.

At 8:45, Bumlets sniffed very loudly. They all pretended not to notice.

At 9:00, Race announced that he was going to the bathroom, and didn't come back until the movie was over.

At 9:15, the character Tony was shot and everyone started to cry, very quietly, except for Swifty, who cried very loudly.

At 9:25, Spot Conlon began to cry too.

_Oh god,_ he thought, desperately wiping his eyes with the sleeves of his long-sleeved t-shirt and trying to control his breathing._ I shouldn't be crying, this is wrong, this is stupid, I can't relate to the social rejects at all, I'm not the crying type, I'm not the crying type, I'm not the—_

"Well," said Blink softly, smiling at him. "Looks like the prom king is the crying type after all. Don't feel bad; nobody is immune to the tragedy of 'West Side Story'."

Spot leaned back against the pillows and closed his eyes. "Shut up, Blink," he sniffed.

* * *

**Shoutouts.**

_studentnumber24601:_Why, thank you! I've been trying to stay more on-canon lately, although I'm stretching it a little with Spot in this story. Thanks for reviewing!

_Southern Spell:_ Honestly? I feel bad for Spot, too. I have a tendency to torture him in my fics, even though he's one of my favorite newsies. I'm so sadistic... Thanks for reviewing!

_rumor:_ In all honesty, the idea of Spot with no hair terrifies me. But I'm glad you enjoyed it. Thanks for reviewing!

_Dreamer110:_ Thank you! (You always leave such nice reviews, it's great.)

_CiCi:_ What can I say? Thank you! Luvs and hugs back to you, lol.

_Coin: _Mr. Spot Goldilocks? Dude. That is why I love you. Thanks so much for reviewing!

_StormShadow21:_Actually, the story behind my name is pretty sad. I thought, "Hmm, what do I want for a penname? Friday is my favorite day of the week—I'll do that!" Friday was taken, unfortunately, so I decided to do my second-favorite day of the week. I'm such a loser:-D HOORAY FOR THE MONKEES! Thank so much for reviewing! (I love your penname, by the way. Two short words, and I get such a fucking image!)

_singin'-newsies-goil:_ Well, you and Dutchy singing Cole Porter is most definitely hotter than Race and me singing Gary, Indiana. You two are mad sex-ay. Thanks so much for reviewing! (And I want more of "One Of Those Days", dammit!)

_repeat:_REEEEEEPEEEEEEAAAAAAAAT!

Race: What the hell are you doing?

I missed her! Hey, don't laugh at me, Race, I never get to talk to Reps anymore. ((sighs)) Anyway, thanks for the review, I love ya!

_Dakki:_I honestly have no idea how to respond to that. My customary "dies laughing" just doesn't seem effective enough. ((sighs)) I apologize for my lack of articulation. Thanks for reviewing!

_Sapphy:_ ((hugs back))((loves back))((fawns back)). I LOVE YOOOU! Thanks for reviewing, babe. ;-)

_Erin Go Bragh:_ SpRace is my favorite, too. I think it works in just about any scenario as long as they don't get all mushy-sappy-romantic with each other—their personalities just don't work that way, y'know? Just my opinion. Anyway, thanks for reviewing!

_Braids: _AHH, THEY DIDN'T CUT OFF YOUR REVIEW! IT'S A FUCKING MIRACLE! ((does a happy dance)) Yeah, the image of Spot with a shaved head scares me too. I like to put a hat on him and pretend he has hair, y'know? ;-) Thanks for reviewing!

_Scout73:_ I hope you found this intriguing enough. ;-) You gave me a review, albeit an extremely short one, so I thank thee. ((grins)) Thank you!

-

**Author's Note:** GOD BLESS THE RED SOX! That's all I have to say. Please leave a review!

-Saturday


	3. Chapter Two

**Author's Note: **Yeah, I meant to update this sooner... I just kinda spaced out, lol. Sorry about the wait—enjoy!

**Disclaimer:** The newsies belong to Disney, any song lyrics belong to their respective bands/artists, and I own anyone you don't recognize.

* * *

****

Chapter II.

Maybe I could be the one they adored

That could be my reputation

It's where I'm from that lets them think I'm a whore

I'm an educated virgin

Now sleepwalker don't be shy

Don't open your eyes tonight

You'll be the one that defends my life

When I'm dead asleep dreamin'

-"Sleepwalker", The Wallflowers

* * *

"Stupid fucking alarm clock on a stupid fucking Monday morning and I'm fucking tired. Fuck fuck fuck." 

Racetrack Higgins was not a morning person. He groped blindly for his cheap alarm clock to shut it off, but soon realized that it was too far away and he would have to actually get out of bed. "FUCK," he said again, and he squished his face into his pillow and swore a little more.

All in all, it was a good ten minutes before he was able to drag himself out of bed, shut off his alarm clock, and get into the shower. The water was freezing cold. "ELIO, YOU BASTARD!" he yelled. "WHERE THE HELL DID ALL THE HOT WATER GO?!"

"IT AIN'T MY FAULT YOU GET UP SO GODDAMN LATE!" his older brother yelled back.

Race rolled his eyes and began to shampoo his hair, still fighting to wake up. He was going to be late to school again. Mrs. Hartline would probably give him a detention. He yawned, got a mouthful of water, and choked.

He didn't have time to dry off thoroughly, so he went downstairs pulling on a pair of blue jeans as he went and dripping all over everything. "Where'd you put my history paper, ya fuck?" Elio demanded, frantically sorting through the heap of papers on the kitchen table. "I'm gonna fail that class if I don't—"

"I didn't touch your paper," said Race tiredly. He opened the refrigerator, stared for a moment at the solitary lump of meat sitting on the shelf, and closed it again. Ah well. He wasn't that hungry anyway. "Where are my sneakers?" he asked.

His brother didn't answer; he had moved on to going through the garbage can.

Race exhaled loudly and made his way back upstairs, scratching and swearing and yawning. "Dad, have you seen my shoes?" he asked, leaning against the doorway to his father's bedroom and squinting in the darkness. "I need to go to school."

There was no response from inside the bedroom, so he took that as permission to enter. Mr. Higgins was fast asleep, obviously completely hung-over, a small patch of drool staining his pillowcase. Race found his sneakers under his father's bed with a knife in one of them, which he pulled out and stuck into the bedpost. "Sleep well," he said dryly. "Please—stay in bed all day."

"Mmrphm," grunted Mr. Higgins, rolling over.

Race left the house at a run, praying that he wouldn't miss the bus. He was holding his t-shirt, dragging his backpack, and almost tripping over his untied shoelaces, and he was _not _in the mood to walk all the way back and steal his brother's car. Ahh, Mondays...

A car slowed down next to him, and he looked up, flicking his hair out of his eyes. He suppressed a groan when he saw who was inside. "Just perfect," he muttered. "Stupid bald kid. Aaaauugh..."

"Do you always go to school shirtless?" asked Spot Conlon, smirking from inside his black Mercedes.

"Yes," said Race seriously.

"Ah." Spot's eyes traveled down the other boy's chest and stomach, and his smirk broadened. He rested his wrists against the steering wheel and leaned back casually. "Don't you have a car? It's February; you're gonna freeze to death."

Race shifted his bag from one hand to the other and pulled his t-shirt on over his head. "Mass transportation. It's better for the environment, man. Get with the times."

"Well it looks like you just missed your mode of mass transportation," Spot remarked casually, looking down the street.

Race spun around to see his bus pulling away from the bus stop, and swore very loudly. "WHY ME?" he demanded, throwing his hands into the air and staring accusingly up at the sky. "WHAT THE FUCK DID I EVER DO TO YOU?"

Spot seemed to be trying not to be amused. "You want a ride?" he asked, grinning.

"NO."

"Fine." He shrugged and pulled his hat lower over his head. "It's about a mile and a half to school from here, though. Just so you know."

"I don't care."

"And school starts in fifteen minutes."

"Fuck off, Conlon."

"And it's 23 degrees out, and your hair's still wet."

Racetrack paused. "All right, let me in."

Spot grinned and unlocked the door, and when Racetrack had climbed in Spot reached forward and turned the music up about 300 decibels. "OH, SO IT'S YOU WHO DRIVES DOWN OUR STREET IN THE MORNING AND WAKES EVERYONE UP WITH THE LOUD RAP," Race yelled over the pounding music.

"IT'S NOT RAP, IT'S HEAVY-METAL SHOUTING," Spot answered. "THERE'S A DIFFERENCE, YOU KNOW."

Race leaned back in his seat and closed his eyes. _What the hell am I _doing _here? _he thought irritably. In all honesty, now that he was experiencing Spot's driving skills he was beginning to think that it would have been much safer to walk and get frostbite—in the ten minute ride to school, Spot passed three red lights, almost crashed into two other cars, and just narrowly missing making a jaywalker into road kill. Racetrack Higgins was not the type of guy to get scared, but this was cutting it pretty close...

They pulled into the Knapman High School parking lot, and Race opened the door and climbed out before the car had come to a complete stop. "You're welcome," Spot called grinningly after him. Race flipped him off without turning around.

"Good morning, Racetrack," said Mush good-naturedly, coming up behind his friend and looking far too awake for his own good. "Whom were you flicking off at suck an early hour, pray tell?"

"Aaaaaaauuuuuuugggh..."

"Oh, Spot."

"Yes." Race ran both hands through his hair and closed his eyes, ignoring Mush's grin. This was not a laughing matter. There was something about that Conlon kid that really pissed him off—something hard to explain—the cockiness of his smirk, or the brightness of his eyes, or maybe just how incredibly goddamn comfortable his car had been. Having spent his entire life in the back seat of a beat-up Ford Pinto, the idea of any teenager owning such a nice car as Spot's was both fantastical and disgusting to Racetrack. Plus, he found Spot's lack of hair rather alarming.

"Shit, that's the first bell," said Mush, glancing at his watch and adjusting his backpack. "I've gotta get to bio. I'll see you later, Race."

"Yeah, bye Mush," said Race absently. He stopped at his locker before making his way down the hall, contemplating ways to casually push Spot Conlon off a cliff, and would have continued in such a fashion all the way to English class had he not found his path obstructed by a large, well-built chest. He looked up.

"Must be hard," said Morris Delancey unsmilingly, "being about three feet shorter than the rest of the world. Does it make fuckin' other guys a big of a challenge? I'd say your dick's probably pretty small—"

"Not being a complete prostitute comes in handy sometimes," said Race, looking coldly up at him. "You should try it sometime; you don't have to think about everything in proportion to the size of your penis." He pushed his way past the other boy, calling over his shoulder, "And by the way, Morris, my height does not hinder my 'butt-fucking' capacity in the slightest. I could show you at some point, if you want."

"Fag!" Morris yelled after him.

"Asshole," Race muttered. He dodged the few last-minute stragglers and darted into his English class just as the bell was ringing. Ha. Just made it.

"Mr. Higgins," drawled Mr. Andrews, who was rumored to have come directly from Ferris Bueller's Day Off. "I ... understand ... that ... it ... is ... difficult ... to ... reach ... My ... class ... in ... the ... mornings ... _but _... please ... try ... to ... put ... in ... some ... more ... effort ... in ... the—"

"Yes, sir, sorry about that," Race cut in, unable to listen to the droning any longer. "I missed my bus and was assaulted by a sadly obtuse, homophobic cretin in the halls, but it shouldn't happen again."

Yeah, right.

"Thank ... you ... Mr. ... Higgins," said Andrews impassively. Moving painfully slowly, he reached forward and lifted up the role call to take attendance. The class relaxed slightly.

Swifty, who was sitting on the other side of the classroom, caught Race's eye and mouthed, _Oscar the Grouch?_

Race shook his head. _Nah, Morris. Just as bad, but a little less creative and a little more heavyset._

Swifty lifted an eyebrow, and it struck Race that he should have mouthed a little more slowly. _Never mind_, he mouthed.

Lip reading across the English room on a Monday morning had definite setbacks, he decided. He leaned forward and let his head drop onto his desk, trying not to remember how Spot's heavy-metal shouting sounded. Man, that had been way too energetic for so early in the morning; all he really wanted was to go back to sleep.

It was going to be a long day.

* * *

Racetrack had always found it vastly entertaining to watch the reactions of teenage girls when Mush Meyers entered a room. Their eyes would widen as they took in his defined cheekbones, dark eyes, amber-colored skin, and sculpted body, and they would sigh involuntarily—and then they would remember that he was one of the Dreaded Social Rejects, and they would turn back to their work in horror and pretend nothing had happened. Before long, however, their eyes would drift back to him and they would sigh again. A little more quietly this time. 

Mush, of course, would remain completely oblivious the entire time.

"I just failed my French test," he announced, sitting down at the lunch table and flashing that brilliant white smile of his that was made for toothpaste ads. "I didn't study at all, and I got less than three hours of sleep last night, and I think I just failed."

There was a moment of silence as they all stared at him, eyebrows raised in expressions of mild surprise. Mush smiled again and began to eat his salad, positively glowing. Bumlets blinked. "There is no way someone can look that beautiful on three hours of sleep."

"Bumlets," said Swifty, "you are so homosexual."

"True, but I have a beautiful arch," Bumlets answered lightly, flexing his foot in the air.

Race lifted an eyebrow. "I don't doubt that you do, but we can't exactly see that through your sneakers, can we?"

"Oh. Point taken."

"Sweet shoes, man," said Blink, sitting down and nudging Bumlets' foot out of the way.

"Black high-tops," said Bumlets with a grin.

"Rock on, dude." Blink winked and slid over to make room for Snitch, Dutchy, Specs, Spot, and, a few minutes later, Skittery. The group of social rejects was really growing far too large to remain at one table, but, considering how difficult it was to claim new lunchtime territory nowadays, they were all forced to simply squish together. There was barely enough room to breathe, and, as Snitch had demonstrated one fine Thursday afternoon, it was all too easy to accidentally poke one's friend in the eye when reaching for the Jell-O on his tray.

"God forbid if one of us ever gets a girlfriend," Skittery murmured, digging into his sandwich. "She'll have to lie across all of our laps or something."

Specs snorted. "I seriously doubt any of us will be getting into romantic relationships any time soon," he said, which earned him a flick in the shoulder from Snitch.

Skittery grinned. "So. What'd I miss while I was bonding with my math teacher?" he asked.

"Mush failed a French test, Bumlets has a beautiful arch, and Antonio Banderas is a sexy beast," said Race.

Bumlets choked. "You think so, too?"

"I really don't think we ever mentioned Antonio Banderas, but whatever," Swifty laughed. "He's really not attractive."

"He so is!" Bumlets insisted. "Isn't he, Race?"

"He is."

Snitch flicked both of them. "This is a bit awkward," he said. "What about Nicole Kidman?"

"Let us disregard our undereducated, straight friends," said Race with a grin. "Bumlets, I say we make a list of the Top Ten Sexy Beasts Of All Time in order to convert our friends to the wonders of homosexuality. What say you?"

"Aye!" Bumlets yelled.

"Fairies unite!" Mush laughed.

"Straight dudes unite!" Blink countered, grinning.

Spot coughed. "I'm bisexual," he said. "I feel distinctly out of place."

Snitch laughed loudly and thumped Spot on the back, and Skittery, Mush, and Blink started discussing which side Spot should be on in the battle of the sexual orientations, but Spot wasn't paying attention. Racetrack had looked up from the beginnings of his stupid list with Bumlets, and he was staring at Spot with a really fucking weird expression on his face.

Race tilted his head to the side, thinking, and Spot tilted his head to the other side, wondering what _Race _was thinking. _Maybe I shouldn't have said that, _he thought awkwardly, but it was too late now. _Shit._

Race bit his lip, tore his eyes away from the strange bald guy who had given him a ride to school, and then ducked beneath the rim of his baseball cap. "All right, Keanu Reeves has got to be number one," he said quietly, and Bumlets grinned and nodded and leaned closer conspiratorially.

Or, as much closer as he could get without being beheaded by Race's baseball cap. They were, after all, incredibly close to each other to begin with.

Spot rolled his eyes, resisted the urge to flip Race off, and continued to eat his sandwich. What the hell had that been about? He was not the type of guy who enjoyed being confused.

And so the lunch period progressed. Not much happened, apart from Bumlets shrieking "EUREKA!" when he remembered another hot man, and Snitch trying to get up to throw out his lunch but ending up causing half the table to fall onto the ground. "Did I do that?" said Snitch in an incredibly nasal voice, and he winked and crossed the cafeteria to the garbage cans.

"All right, dude, I think we've got it," said Race finally, kissing a sheet of paper that was almost unrecognizable under thousands of scribbled words and calculations in the margins. He turned to the rest of the table, ignoring Snitch, who was pretending to snore loudly.

"All right! So now we'd like to do a salute to the Top Ten Sexy Beasts Of All Time!" said Bumlets.

"Golf claps," said Blink dryly, and everyone clapped.

"Excellent!" said Race. He lifted up the sheet of paper on his open palm as though it were something sacred (which, in his mind, it probably was) and read calmly, "The tenth sexiest guy in the world is none other than our beloved Harrison Ford!"

The list went on as such to include Judd Nelson ("But only in The Breakfast Club, man..."), Matthew Broderick, Bono, Anthony Kiedis ("Who the hell is that?" _Smack! _"That wash for blashphemy, shon."), Joey Mcintyre, Gabriel Damon ("He looks kinda like Spot, dude!" "NO HE DOESN'T! SHUT THE FUCK UP!" "Well sheesh, Race! Someone's PMS-ing!"), Will Smith, Antonio Banderas, and, predictably, Keanu Reeves.

There was a moment of silence when they finished, and Skittery announced in slight disbelief that Snitch had really fallen asleep. "Well," said Blink after a moment, "that was a complete waste of time. Amusing, albeit, but a complete waste of time."

"Anthony Kiedis… Still doesn't ring a bell..."

"Shut up, Swifty, before I strangle you."

And thus the group left the cafeteria, talking and laughing and, in the case of Snitch, sucking their thumbs, and Race crumpled the list into a ball and shoved it into his pocket. Not the kind of thing he wanted lying around, really.

Spot glanced at Race as he was throwing out the remains of his sandwich, and Race glanced back at Spot, and then they both looked away and Race coughed and sped up his pace. "I have to get to Bio," he said to no one in particular. "I have to hurry out of the cafeteria and get to Bio."

And that was that.

* * *

"WHERE TH' FUCK D'YA THINK YER GOIN'?" was the first thing that Racetrack heard as he crept quietly up the stairs. He stopped and leaned back against the wall, eyes closed, mouthing _Aw God, no... Why couldn't he have passed out in the night?_

"I'm going to my room to do my homework," he said after a moment, choosing his words carefully.

There was a pause.

"Waste of a son," Mr. Higgins muttered, swallowing loudly. His voice was slurred and gravelly and harsh. "Always doin' homework." Then, louder, "Don't you have anythin' better t'do, kid?"

Race cracked the knuckles on his left hand. "No, Dad," he said, fighting to keep his tone even.

Mr. Higgins swallowed again and didn't say anything.

Racetrack came slowly back down the stairs and looked at his father, his breathing slightly ragged. "I think you should lay off of the alcohol for today," he said softly.

"'Scuse me?" Mr. Higgins demanded, narrowing red-rimmed eyes. "Whadja say, ya fuck? Y'know, if it weren't fer my you'd be—you'd—" He coughed hoarsely. "I ain't takin' advice from me own no-good son. Go and do yer fuckin' homework.

Racetrack swallowed with difficulty and tore his gaze away from his father. "Okay, Dad," he said with the slightest hint of sarcasm in his voice. "I'll go and do my fucking homework."

He climbed the stairs to his room, backpack swinging from one shoulder, and slammed the door behind him. It trembled for a second, swayed, and then fell completely off its hinges and onto the floor, nearly crushing him.

There was a pause.

"Perfect," said Race, throwing his hands into the air. "Just damn perfect."

In the other room, Elio was listening to something that sounded suspiciously like Spot's heavy-metal shouting. Race ignored it and began to try to fit the door back into the doorframe. He suddenly felt rather nauseous.

"Dammit," he murmured. "I'm gonna kill that bald kid..."

* * *

**Shoutouts!**

**lil ms kp:** Thanks a lot, I'm really glad you like it!

**Hillary:** Dude, I remember that! We were both in the ocean and in between ducking under huge waves I was trying to explain to you how Tempest kills Jack but then Blink kills Tempest, and you were so confused... Sorry about that, lol. Thanks so much for reviewing!

**Strawberri Shake:** Ice hockey rocks my socks too! Dude, have you seen "Miracle"? Fucking awesome movie... Anyway, thanks for reviewing! (Even if you are a Yankees fan. My goodness, there are far too many of you guys on this site nowadays, lol...)

**Anonymous:** Hooray for SpRace! WOO HOO! Thanks for reviewing!skittery's bad mood: Haha, thank you so much!

**HAZZAGRIFF: **Thank you! Nice penname, by the way. I'd love to hear the story behind this one...

**Iambic Pentameter:** Yeah, the image of Spot with no hair disturbs me too... I don't know why I thought it was necessary to shave his head at the beginning. I'm sure there are much easier ways to kill his popularity, but whatever, lol. Thanks so much for reviewing! GO RED SOX!

**time is a waste of life: **I, admittedly, am not a ballerina, so thank you very much for the correct terminology. ;-) I agree, I don't like imagining Spot with no hair... It's pretty gross to think about, lol. That's why I always have him wearing a hat. Anyway, thanks for reviewing!

**Sapphy:** You, my dear, write the funniest reviews I have ever read. I remember Dakki saying something about you along the lines of, "She has the most energy embodied into typing that I have ever seen". GO SAPPHY! Thanks so much for reviewing!

**Dreamer110:** Ohh, West Side Story... Don't even get me started on that movie. I cry so hard. It's awesome, though, which is why I include it in, like, every story I write. Anyway, thanks so much for reviewing!

**Braids21:** Your review didn't get cut off! OHMYGOSH! I'M SO EXCITED!! ((tackles you)) Thanks so much for reviewing!

**studentnumber24601:** Well yes... I did recognize that, actually, when I was writing the chapter, but I sort of did that on purpose. I have a really exaggerated writing style, and the whole feminine sobbing-around-the-television-and-singing-along-with-show-tunes was sort of supposed to show why, exactly, they have no friends. ;-) Anyway, thanks for reviewing! Your constructive criticism is always appreciated.

**Soaker:** Sexual tension? ((laughs)) But of course!

**Stage:** HAHA! Okay, I must say that this is a bit of a relief that I'm not the only person insanely attracted to Specs. ;-) Thanks so much for reviewing!!

**Erin Go Bragh: **Hahaha! Again, a brilliant rambling fic from Lyra. I love it! I'm not sure what Snitch is going to play... What do you suggest? I was thinking clarinet or something, lol. Thanks for reviewing!

**Aelia O'Hession:** Yeah, I do take a little too much pleasure in torturing Spot. I think I just find it vastly amusing how seriously he takes himself in the movie, so it's satisfying to give him self-esteem issues and stuff in fan fiction. (Not canon, I know.) Anyway, thanks so much for reviewing!

**Madison Square:** Samneric was actually where I got the idea for Sputchy, lol. I love "Lord of the Flies"... ((gasp)) You caught me! I made a mistake! I NEVER make mistakes!! ((starts to laugh)) But you're right, I forgot that Spot didn't have hair for a second there, lol. Thanks for reviewing!

**Dakki:** I did, admittedly, cry much harder for "Dead Poet's Society" than I did for "West Side Story". I don't know why. Anyway, thank you so much for reviewing! I shall continue working on our masterpiece after I post this—your last contribution was pure GENIUS, by the way. I laughed so hard. Ahh.

**Coin:** Thank you so much!! ((tackles you into a hug))**s**

**ingin'-newsies-goil:** My fellow RENT-head! How I love thee! ((tackles you)) Yes, go and download "You're The Top", for it is now your theme song. (And make sure you get it with Ethel Merman singing it; she's the best.)

**

* * *

Author's Note:** HAPPY NEW YEAR, I LOVE YOU ALL!! Make 2005 wonderful for me and leave a review! ;-) 

-Saturday


	4. Chapter Three

**Author's Note:** Yeah, I'm alive! Go figure! Sorry about the lack of updates and review-age—I've been pretty damn busy lately. Freshman year! Ooooooh!

**Disclaimer:** The newsies belong to Disney, any song lyrics belong to their respective bands/artists, and Spot's car belongs to me.

I will paint my picture  
Paint myself in blue and red and black and gray  
All of the beautiful colors are very, very meaningful  
Yeah, you know gray's my favorite color  
I felt so symbolic yesterday  
If I knew Picasso  
I would buy myself a gray guitar and play

-"Mr. Jones," Counting Crows

* * *

Racetrack, Swifty, and Bumlets had made a tradition of walking home together after school every day, and nobody in the entire school (including Specs, the "shrink") could figure out why. They didn't talk to each other much during the day. They disagreed on almost everything. They didn't even _live_ near each other. And yet, since halfway through the seventh grade, the three boys had been walking buddies. 

That, in the eyes of the rest of school, was a sure sign of mental disease. Or else a daily gay orgy at Swifty's house. Most people brought both up when mercilessly mocking the three rejects.

Today was a miserable, cold, icy, slimy February day, and it was raining "as though the gods have had a beer party and are now peeing all over us," Bumlets remarked grimly, running a hand through his sopping hair. None of them had thought to bring an umbrella.

Swifty smiled. "I like that analogy," he said with a laugh.

"Thank you!" Bumlets grinned and turned back to his book—_Wicked: The Life and Times of the Wicked Witch of the West._

"Isn't your book gonna get wet?" Swifty asked.

"Nah, it's water-repellant."

"Right..."

A large car slowed to a stop beside them, and the passenger seat window was rolled down. "Hey, can we come to your gay orgy too?" asked Oscar Delancey icily, who was smirking and balancing his girlfriend Amber on his lap.

Racetrack looked up at them. "I wouldn't say that in front of my girlfriend if I were you. She might be a little disappointed that her boyfriend has homosexual tendencies he never told her about. Or maybe she _won't_ be all that disappointed..."

Oscar's smirk faded slightly. So did Amber's, and she crossed her arms over her chest.

"Hey Paredes," Jack called from the driver's seat. "Don't you have anything better to do than fuck your computer-nerd boyfriend?"

Bumlets closed his book. "What else is there to do?" he asked idly. "What do you guys do? Masturbate? Besides, I don't think anyone could resist Swifty's hot body."

Which was Swifty's cue to lift up his shirt and start to do his famed belly-dance, showing off his surprisingly toned chest and stomach.

"He's hot, eh?" Race laughed.

Jack's jaw dropped, and Oscar cringed. "Let's go, Kelly," he said, and they drove off as quickly as they could, leaving a cloud of exhaust to hang over the three boys in the damp air.

"I hate February," said Race, "with a passion." He glared at his surroundings and spat on the ground, pulling his baseball cap lower to protect his face from the rain. "Everything about this month is gloomy and wet and depressing."

"Valentines Day is on Monday, though!" said Swifty cheerily, tucking his shirt back into his pants.

"I'm a single homosexual teenage boy who's roughly five feet tall. How the fuck is _Valentines Day _supposed to brighten up my February?" Racetrack demanded.

Bumlets looked up from his book. "Point taken."

"_Bumlets!" _Swifty flicked him in the shoulder before turning back to Race. "Think of it this way," he said brightly. "Maybe you'll find another single homosexual teenage boy who's roughly five feet tall! That can't be too hard."

"Sounds like Spot Conlon," said Bumlets with a laugh.

"Well he's bisexual, but I guess in essence that's the same th—"

"I DO NOT WANT TO DATE SPOT CONLON!" Race snapped, kicking a puddle of slush in a rather violent manner.

"Good, that'll make things much simpler," said Spot, coming up from behind them. "Sexual tension's so distracting, dontcha think? Drives me crazy." He flashed Race a wide, white smile and put his hands casually in the pockets of his blue jeans.

Race turned red. "What do you want, Conlon?"

"I parked up here," said Spot, nodding towards the Mercedes up ahead of them. "Any of you need a ride?"

"No," said Race.

Spot shrugged. "Suit yourself." He pulled his hat lower over his head, cleared his throat, and jogged off towards his beautiful, warm, dry car.

Swifty looked imploringly up at Race. "Can—"

"No," said Race firmly.

"But—"

"We can't. We'd be endangering ourselves _and_ those around us, and I refuse to jeopardize the ones I love."

Swifty blinked. "Um, okay..."

Racetrack smiled slightly.

From behind them came the sound of small wheels on cold concrete. "Heads up, Higgins," called a rough voice, and before they knew it a lanky, blond skateboarder with a cigarette poking out of the corner of his mouth had pushed past them. He shoved Racetrack in the chest, skidded off the sidewalk, and plowed Spot over as he was unlocking his car.

"You dick!" Race called after him. The guy flipped them off without turning around.

"Hey Conlon, you all right?" Bumlets called, eyeing Spot with mild concern.

Spot didn't answer. He stood up and examined his elbow, which was raw and starting to bleed where it had been smashed against the icy road and the edge of the skateboard. It seemed to be slightly twisted at an awkward angle. He glanced up at the three boys behind him and quickly pulled the sleeve of his fleece over his injury.

"You all right?" Bumlets repeated his question.

"Bumlets, just leave 'im," said Race quietly. Swifty looked at him.

Bumlets ignored Race and made his way over to Spot's car, his considerate personality getting the better of him. Spot was looking kind of awkward, but Bumlets ignored him and took him by the arm. "Lemme see that, don't be retarded," he said, and he pulled back the other boy's sleeve so the wound was showing again.

"I'm fine," said Spot.

"You're a dumbass," said Bumlets. "This is gonna get infected if you don't do somethin' about it. Give me your car keys."

"I have no car keys," said Spot with every ounce of honesty he had.

Bumlets raised an eyebrow. "Racetrack, tear his arms off."

"Oh you mean these car keys," said Spot quickly, pulling them out of his pocket. Bumlets smiled.

-

Bumlets' family was unusual and yet all too usual at the same time. Mildred was his mother's name, a good, strong name for a good, strong woman. She smoked a pack of cigarettes a day, kept her thick, dark hair back in a tight ponytail all her life, and went jogging every morning at six o'clock sharp. She also had five boys: Ray, Peter, Isaac, Marc, and Bumlets, or Dominic. Ray was fourteen, Peter was eleven, Marc was nine, and Isaac was the baby. Everyone loved Isaac. He was hands-down adorable.

The four youngsters were just getting into the car to go to the grocery store when Bumlets, Racetrack, Swifty, and Spot pulled into the driveway. Mildred didn't trust the younger boys enough to leave them home alone, so grocery shopping had become a sort of a family event.

"Mom, can we get those cookies?" asked Isaac, who was six.

"What cookies?" Peter demanded. "You can't just say 'those cookies' and expect her to know exactly which cookies you're talking about. There are _hundreds _of cookies at Roche Brothers."

"Hey!" said Isaac, reaching over and trying to hit him. "You're so stupid, Pete. Just because you're eleven, you think you can be bossy!"

"Guys, cut it out," said Ray loftily.

Isaac rolled his eyes. "Marc knows what I'm talking about, right? Isn't Pete mean?"

"I dunno..." said Marc vaguely, putting his hands in his pockets and looking down.

"There you go again, not taking anyone's side," Pete accused, poking Marc in the ribs.

Bumlets sighed as he got out of the car. "Just ignore them, they'll be gone in a couple of minutes anyway," he said tiredly. "Race, could you pass me my bag?"

"Why are there BALLET slippers in here?" Race laughed, pushing them back into the front pocket. "They were just hangin' out in the open—you're lucky Oscar didn't see 'em, he woulda given you hell."

Bumlets grinned, completely unembarrassed. "I had class yesterday after school, I guess I just forgot to take 'em out. Thanks for reminding me."

"Who's this, Dominic?" his mother called while she was buckling Isaac into the car. "New boyfriend?"

Bumlets choked. "Wha—_Spot! _No, no, he's not my boyfriend—"

"Hello Kevin, why the long face?" Mildred continued, smiling broadly at Swifty. "It's been a while since I've seen you around. You should drop by more often. Is he a cancer patient?" she asked, nodding at Spot.

Bumlets stared in horror at his mother, and Spot blinked. "Pardon?"

"Where's your hair?" she asked, eyeing him with interest as she climbed into the car. "Are you going through chemotherapy?"

"Mom!"

Spot cleared his throat awkwardly. "No, one of my friends shaved my head. It's kind of a long story. Look, Bumlets, if you could just give me my keys back—"

"Don't DO that!" Ray gasped, grabbing his ribs. "Mom, Pete's poking me again! AHH! STOP!"

Pete poked him again, and Ray poked him back, and Isaac reached over and poked Marc, and before anyone realized what was happening their mother's handbag was swinging back at them from the front seat. They all ducked, except Ray who was rather slow and got it full in the face. "Shut it, all of you," said Mildred calmly. "We're not getting any cookies, Isaac. We are going to buy some sandwich bread, a few apples, three boxes of almonds, and another carton of milk. That's it."

"Aww, Mom!" they all groaned.

"It's delicious," she told them firmly.

"No it's not," said Isaac, crossing his arms over his chest and glaring at the back of his mother's head. "It's healthy."

They left, and an eerie silence settled over the entire neighborhood. Bumlets coughed and shrugged his bag on awkwardly. "I'm an introvert, too," he said. "It's pretty much living hell."

They entered the house and waded through a mass of boxer shorts, baseball bats, diapers, CD's, and a few more pairs of ballet slippers. Never before had the world seen such a mess; there was barely enough room to _breathe _in that house, let alone walk. Swifty smiled slightly.

"I'm not bleeding anymore," Spot announced.

"Please, go home, then!" Race mumbled, running both hands through his hair. Spot didn't seem to hear him, but Swifty shot him a look and flicked his shoulder.

Bumlets, who was climbing up onto a stool to reach a particularly high shelf, glanced back at Spot's elbow. "Um, yes you are still bleeding," he said, lifting an eyebrow. "Just shut up for a second, I'm getting a bandage."

"This is entirely unnecessary!" cried Spot.

"I agree!" Race declared, and Swifty shot him another look.

"Aha!" Bumlets hopped lightly down from the stool, slipped on a paperback book on the floor, and grabbed onto Swifty's arm to keep himself from falling over completely. He regained his balance and smiled. "Give me your elbow," he said to Spot.

"Take it, by all means."

As Bumlets began to disinfect and then bandage Spot's elbow, Swifty and Racetrack shifted around restlessly; Race located a piano in the corner and decided it was necessary to pick out one of his favorite Coldplay songs as background music. "Can you play?" Swifty asked him, leaning on the keyboard.

"A little," said Race. "I took lessons when I was eight."

"Show me," said Swifty.

So Race, without taking his eyes off the other boy's face, reached down and played the beginning of Hava Nagilah on the piano. Deadpan. Swifty laughed.

"Where'd you get all these bandages, anyway?" Spot asked, going through the enormous first aid box. "Dance injuries or somethin'?"

"Yeah, that and school," said Bumlets, cutting a strip of bandage for Spot's elbow.

Spot looked up, surprised. "School injuries?"

Swifty accidentally stepped on a rubber ducky and leapt backwards in terror from the shrill, squeaky noise that was produced.

"Just Kelly and that crowd." Bumlets shrugged one shoulder and didn't meet the other boy's eyes. "It's not a big deal, they don't do it that much anymore."

"They hurt you?" Spot asked, astonished. "I didn't think—"

Race cleared his throat significantly. "Um, _you _hurt him. They're your friends, remember? Don't go playin' dumb like you never picked on Bumlets—"

"I never physically hurt the guy!"

"He didn't," said Bumlets, wrapping the bandage around Spot's arm. "It wasn't that big a deal, just the Delanceys, mainly. Pushed me around a little, it's fine now."

"They nearly broke his arm," said Racetrack.

Spot pulled his arm back and shoved the sleeve of his fleece back over the injury. "I don't get you guys," he said gruffly. "Why do you put up with shit like that? I mean... you could probably move up a lot in the social ladder if you wanted to. I don't get why you don't try to fight back at all."

There was a pause. Bumlets was looking fixatedly at Spot. Swifty picked up the rubber ducky between his thumb and index finger and tossed it across the room as though it were a poisonous spider. It landed with a squeak, and he flinched slightly.

"It's almost... It's like it's become a matter of pride or something now. Not having pride," said Racetrack after a moment. "Just sorta standing up for what you as a person believe in, instead of what the rest of the pack thinks is right."

"Making a statement," said Swifty. "In a sick, self-destructive kind of way."

Spot considered this for a moment, and then Bumlets forced on a smile that was almost natural—his changing-the-topic smile. "Well your arm shouldn't be falling off any time soon now, Spot. You guys might want to get the hell out of my house before my family comes back... You really don't want to see Isaac when he's hungry."

* * *

**Shoutouts**

**singin'-newsies-goil:** Anthony Kiedis is the lead singer for the Red Hot Chili Peppers, and he's really hot in a completely drugged-out kind of way. Bumlets has a major crush on him. -P Anyway, thanks for reviewing!

**HAZZAGRIFF:** Eureka! I love it-D Thanks for reviewing!

**Scout73:** Never fear, love! I shall buy you your very own Joey Mcintyre and mail him to your house, and he'll see you and say, "What an incredible haircut! I do believe I'll leave theater forever and come live with you!" ...I've definitely lost my mind. Anyway, thanks for reviewing!

**Iambic Pentameter:** Thank you so much! I love the word cretin, too; I need to start insulting people more so that I can use that word more often.

**blackblood:** Johnny Depp is... incredible. No other word for it. And I forgot him. FORGIVE ME!

**Dipps:** Thank you so much!

**XBeLLaViTaX:** Thank you so much! Sorry about the slow update, I've been kinda slacking off on fanfiction, lol...

**Kid Blink's Dreamer:** I really do torture Racetrack too much, don't I? Race and Spot. I'm so fucking mean to them... ;-) Thanks for reviewing!

**Dreamer110:** I'm glad you dislike Race's dad, lol. If you liked him, I would be severely disturbed...

**Madison Square: **I do, admittedly, have an ENORMOUS crush on Bumlets. I just want to put him in my pocket. He's adorable. I try not to let that show in my writing when he's not the main character, but I think it's pretty obvious, lol...

**Braids21:** Oh no, my friend! Keanu Reeves is ALWAYS sexy! At least I think so, but very few people agree with me... I feel so alone. Anyway, thanks for reviewing (three times, lol).

**Erin Go Bragh:** Wow, sometimes I seriously wish I was asexual. It would reduce so much unnecessary excitement and stress! ;-) Anyway, the boys would never let you feel left out at that table. They'd invite Davey over, who I suspect has no sexual organs whatsoever, and the two of you could make fun of those obnoxious horny boys. Haha, I'm so weird... Thanks for reviewing!

**Dakki:** I MUST see "Bladerunner". My friend's been trying to get me to see that for the past month or so. She's been like, "It's totally retarded. Harrison is insane. You _have_ to see it!" -) Thanks so much for reviewing! Te adoro!

-

**Author's Note:** That chapter was kinda random, not my best work. Sorry about that! I'm gonna try to update as soon as possible (meaning in less than a year, lol)—leave a review and I'll love you forever!

-Saturday


	5. Chapter Four

**Author's Note:** Whoa, where the fuck have I with this story? Sorry about that, guys, if any of you cared enough to get pissed at me. I've been writing a lot of original work and kind of drifted out of fanfiction for a while, but then Dakki-my-love and I have been reunited in a new fic "The Kowboi Klub" (READ AND REVIEW) and I re-realized the true beauty of the newsies fandom! (And, of course, the true beauty of torturing Spot Conlon.)

**Disclaimer:** Don't own the newsies, lyrics belong to their respective bands, etc.

* * *

I never give you my pillow, I only send you my invitations  
And in the middle of the celebrations, I break down  
Boy, you're gonna carry that weight, carry that weight a long time

-"Carry That Weight," The Beatles

-

For the first time in his life, Spot Conlon was beginning to feel genuinely guilty about something he himself hadn't directly initiated. He wasn't used to this feeling, and he didn't like it at all.

He watched Bumlets maneuvering with the true agility of a dancer through the maze of bowling balls, baseball caps, and half-eaten sandwiches that was his kitchen, putting away the First-Aid kit and trying desultorily to clean up, and he found himself wondering why the rest of the school hated the dark-haired boy. And why the rest of the school hated Racetrack, who was tossing a rubber ducky rather menacingly at Swifty, who was practically crying. They really were just normal guys, weren't they?

He choked slightly, realizing what he had just thought. Normal guys! Clearly they weren't normal guys if the instincts of all his classmates had pointed to that circle of friends as unacceptable. There must be something wrong with them, something he hadn't quite noticed yet.

And then Bumlets did a graceful sort of pirouette in order to avoid stepping on what looked like a violin, and Spot realized: they were rejects because _he_ had rejected them.

Not Spot specifically, of course; he had never spoken to one of the dreaded outcasts before his rather tragic loss of hair, and therefore had had no opportunity to declare them inadequate for normal social life. He had always let Jack and the Delanceys do all the talking, and it had been them, mainly, who had rejected Racetrack and his group of faggot friends. And naturally the rest of the school had listened to them.

"Why the hell are you guys still here?" Bumlets demanded of the other three with his upper body hidden in the freezer. "I thought I told you to get lost, didn't I?"

"Hey, whatcha doin'?" Race asked, completely ignoring Bumlets's previous question.

The dark-haired boy emerged with a grin. "Cherry Garcia ice cream," he said, and he closed the freezer, grabbed a spoon, and pulled himself up onto the counter.

Swifty smiled too. "If you don't give me some of that shit, man, I'm gonna slit your throat."

"Then by all means, have some!" said Bumlets.

"You are so giving me some too," Racetrack demanded.

It really was kind of a scary thought, though, Spot mused as he watched Swifty and Bumlets sharing a spoon. (The word _homosexual _drifted lazily through his mind, but he pushed it away and continued to ponder the workings of his high school.) He and his friends hadn't really been all that many: maybe five or six? And yet they were able to define the social success of seven or eight reasonably decent teenage boys.

No, not reasonably decent, he corrected himself firmly. Jack wouldn't have chosen them if they were reasonably decent. _David _was reasonably decent; these guys were just…

Different.

"Hey Spot, you want some?" Swifty asked, waving his spoon at the other boy.

Spot blinked, slightly startled. He had assumed that he was going to be left out of their cute little ice cream party because he was so separate from them and the way that they functioned. But he loved Jerry Garcia.

"Come hear Uncle John's band!" said Racetrack, and Spot got up and made his way precariously through the mess over to them.

"You ever had this stuff before?" Bumlets asked.

Spot shrugged. "Probably not. My mom's always formulating ways to make the household more perfect, and one of her plans was to make sure we all ate healthy. I haven't had a decent ice cream cone in years."

"Well this shit is _good_," said Race with his mouth full, nodding slightly, and then: "You listen to your mother?"

"Dude, I think she checks after I take a shit to make sure I do listen to her," said Spot seriously.

Swifty laughed and took another bite of ice cream. "Man, what all of us wouldn't give for normal parents, eh?"

"Ha, amen to that."

Race shrugged, looking strange.

Spot looked around awkwardly and then said, "So Bumlets, you got any clean spoons around here or am I gonna have to eat this shit with my fingers?"

"Um..." Bumlets looked across the kitchen to the sink, which was a mountain of dirty dishes and pots and pans. "Probably not, and it's not really worth the trouble of trying to look for one. The fact that we've found two is quite an accomplishment. Just share with Race or something."

Spot blinked.

"Aw c'mon, I don't have STD's or something," said Race, smiling and offering his spoon to Spot.

Spot reflected that the ice cream seemed to have sedated Racetrack, making him surprisingly good-natured. He dug into the container and then put the spoon in his mouth, and was instantly gratified with not only an explosive, cherry-vanilla kind of flavor but also a warm spoon, which turned him on like crazy. He turned to stare at Race, who mistook his facial expression as one of happiness instead of horniness.

"It's good, isn't it?" he said, looking just like a little kid with his eyes open wide. "It's, like, Grateful Dead's music personified or something. If 'Box of Rain' were to taste like an ice cream flavor, that would so be it."

"You are _such_ a freak," said Swifty.

Spot swallowed the ice cream, holding the spoon in his mouth perhaps slightly longer than was necessary, and then offered it back to Racetrack and said, "Do you guys want to go to the movies or something?"

There was a long pause.

"...What?" Swifty said finally.

"I dunno, just thought I'd ask..." said Spot, slightly embarrassed. He tugged at his hat. "I mean it's Friday afternoon and we're sitting around eating ice cream and getting high, and I mean why not? We could go see, like, 'Charlie and the Chocolate Factory' or something."

Bumlets choked slightly. "Johnny Depp has the sexiest teeth _ever_ in that movie. They're, like, absolutely perfect."

"You seen it?" Spot asked in mild surprise.

"No, just the commercials."

"Whoa whoa whoa, hang on, man," said Race, waving his spoon in the air with ice cream still on it. It fell after a second and hit the floor with a wet thump, and Racetrack frowned at it for a moment before continuing. "Why the hell would you do that?"

"Why the hell would I do what?"

"Take us to the movies."

Spot grimaced slightly, confused. "Didn't I just explain...?"

"Why the fuck would you want to be seen in public with _us?"_ Race demanded, poking Spot in the chest with his spoon. "You're too detached and superior to be seen in the company of renowned social failures. Do you have some sort of, like, elaborate scheme hidden up your sleeve?"

"All I have hidden up my sleeve is an immense amount of bandages, thanks to Bumlets!" Spot exclaimed in frustration.

"Ha," said Race, looking grumpy. The ice cream drug seemed to have worn off extraordinarily quickly, and now he had returned to his usual cynical and mistrustful self. Except this time he had a spoon with which to gesticulate.

Spot sighed softly and decided to try a different angle. "Look, man," he said in a voice he hoped sounded at least vaguely kind and truthful. "I wanna take you guys out because you bandaged me up and you're real nice, and I know Bumlets has a major crush on Johnny Depp."

"It's true," said Bumlets, nodding.

Swifty shifted a little where he was standing.

Race narrowed his dark eyes and stared at Spot, who stared right back and tried to look like he had good intentions. Which he did, in truth. And plus he wanted to see Johnny Depp too, despite the godawful haircut his character had in the new movie.

"Well?" Swifty demanded finally, poking Race in the ribs. "You done giving him an x-ray or whatever? The ice cream's melting."

Bumlets looked at the container in his hands and saw that its contents were indeed melting. He lifted it up and licked the surface of the half-melted ice cream, and Swifty shifted slightly again.

Race threw his hands up in the air as if in defeat. "Okay, whatever!" he snapped. "We'll go!" He tried to storm off but tripped over a broken stereo in the middle of the kitchen floor, grumbled a few choice words, and picked his way grudgingly across the room and into the hall.

Spot felt that, somehow, he had won something more than just an argument there.

Ten minutes later they were all sitting in Spot's beautiful black Mercedes, admiring it from all angles while Spot pretended to be nonchalant as he turned the keys.

"Man. You have the sweetest ride in the world," said Swifty in amazement.

"I _know,"_ Spot gloated, finally cracking and running his hand tenderly across the dashboard. "I got it for my birthday and I still had to pay for, like, half of it. This thing is better than my dad's car."

Bumlets traced his long fingers along the leather seating, looking rather in awe. The entire inside of the car seemed to be gleaming gold, and he couldn't stop moving his hands over it. He accidentally touched Swifty, who was sitting next to him, and Swifty looked at him with dark eyes.

"Sorry," said Bumlets.

"Forget it," said Swifty.

Race was sitting rather sullenly in the passenger seat next to Spot, arms crossed over his chest. The superiority of Spot's car seemed to have frustrated him, but Spot couldn't figure out why.

So he did what he always did when he was confused: he ignored the problem and put on some music.

He saw Race flinch out of the corner of his eye and then pause, looking slightly startled. He stared at Spot, who stared right back for as long as he could before turning back to the road. Finally, Race said in tones of incredulity, "The Shins?"

"What, don't you like them?" Spot asked, eyes still on the road. He glanced in the rearview mirror because Bumlets and Swifty were being oddly quiet, but for all he could see they were both staring out their windows, apparently lost in thought. He smiled slightly.

"Of course I like them, they kick ass!" Racetrack snapped.

"So what's then problem, then?"

"The problem," said Race, bending down to tie his shoe, "is that you listen to Metallica and Rage Against The Machine."

"So?" Spot was enjoying this conversation immensely. He reached forward and turned up the music because it was halfway through the album and on one of his favorite songs, Weird Divide. It had been stuck in his head all week.

Race seemed frustrated. _"So_, what the hell are you doing listening to a flowy, weird, European band like The Shins? Are you schizophrenic or something?" he demanded.

"Look," said Spot evenly, "as a self-proclaimed nonconformist, you of all people should understand the idea of not restricting yourself to one musical genre alone. It's just not healthy!"

Race opened his mouth to speak, thought for a moment, and then closed it again looking incredibly pissed off. Spot smirked. In truth he had been embarrassed by how alarmed Race had been by his metal the other day, and he had decided to test out other fields. The Shins had intrigued him—he already had The Garden State soundtrack which toted two songs from _Oh, Inverted World_.

He bought both of their albums in one afternoon and listened to them on repeat for hours while doing his homework, and it made his mother cry with happiness.

They pulled into the movie theater, and Bumlets seemed to regain his animated personality at the prospect of watching Johnny Depp's teeth for two hours straight. "This is going to be so much fun!" he crooned as they got out of the car, wrapping his arms around Spot and kissing him on the cheek. "I LOVE YOU!"

Spot made a sort of strangled noise and wrenched Bumlets off him, staggering backwards and falling against his car. "Bumlets, that is entirely unnecessary—"

"Hey, look at that! Spotty's got a boyfriend already!"

All four of them whipped around and found themselves face to face with Oscar Delancey, Jack Kelly, and both of their girlfriends. "Well well well, what have we here?" said Jack, smirking. "Long time no see, eh, boys?"

Spot looked at him, trying to quell the enormous urge in his chest to beg to rejoin them and their upper-crust position at the high school. "What do you want, Jacky-boy?" he asked tiredly.

"We're goin' to see 'Charlie and the—" Oscar began, but Jack shushed him hurriedly and turned a little pink. He quickly changed the subject.

"Spot, you see to have taken to these guys pretty quickly. You takin' 'em out on a huge date?"

Racetrack sighed delicately. "Jack, it really depresses me that you seem incapable to comprehend the fact that mocking us about our sexual orientations doesn't faze us," he said coldly.

"True, but Spotty's always been kinda insecure about that kinda thing," said Jack, his smirk broadening.

"You seem incredibly conscious of the sexualities of your peers," said Racetrack.

"Well I ain't," said Jack.

"You're going in circles," said Race.

"No I ain't!" said Jack.

Race rolled his eyes. "Fuck off, Cowboy," he said softly.

Jack froze, staring at him. "Don't. Call me. Cowboy."

"What's this?" Spot asked, highly amused, looking back and fourth between the two.

"It's nothin'," said Jack immediately, and he glanced back at Oscar, Amber, and Sarah, who were looking confused.

"Yeah, it's nothin'," Race repeated dryly. "Fuck off, man, or I'll explain."

And they left, but it wasn't before Oscar got in the last word of, "You fucking faggots'll regret this."

Bumlets, Swifty, and Spot all watched them go before turning to Race, who was grinning. "Cowboy?" Swifty repeated, lifting an eyebrow.

"He's so touchy about his sexuality," said Race by way of explanation. "I used to call him that to piss him off, like my own little role-play character for him. Wouldn't that be cute? You could give him a cowboy hat and a whip and a pair of gratuitously tight blue jeans, and..."

"Oh my God," Spot laughed, amazed. "I can't believe you would—"

"You are so SICK!" Bumlets snorted.

Race shrugged. "It freaks him out."

"Ha, I would hope so!"

They made their way into the cinema and bought four tickets to 'Charlie and the Chocolate Factory,' and filed into one of the theaters and sat down four in a row. Bumlets grabbed Swifty's hand in anticipation, and Swifty didn't seem to mind at all. Spot grinned.

The movie began, and right from the start Spot knew that this was going to be one of the most enjoyable experiences he would ever have at the movie theater. Bumlets gasped a little and looked as though he were squeezing Swifty's fingers off the moment Willie Wonka's face appeared on the screen, and Swifty looked as though he were enjoying himself immensely.

Racetrack, also, was having a good time. Spot was surprised by how amused the short, mean Italian was by the strange humor of the movie; it felt like he was laughing at every other line, and Spot was very pleased with himself for selecting such a well-liked movie. He was smirking more than he had ever smirked in his life.

"I. _Love. _Johnny. Depp," said Bumlets as they exited the theater a few hours later, Swifty subtly massaging his faintly purple fingers.

"So do I," Racetrack practically oozed. Spot looked at him, incredulous, before realizing that the other boy was kidding. "Man, Bumlets. I mean 'Pirates of the Caribbean' I can understand. I even get what's hot about him in 'What's Eating Gilbert Grape.' But he was so... fucked up in this movie!"

"I thought it was cute," said Bumlets.

_"You're_ cute," said Racetrack.

Spot found the whole thing absolutely adorable (or as adorable as three social rejects could get), and he figured that the only thing that could make this situation better would be alcohol. None of them were exactly of age yet, and getting smashed more frequently certainly wouldn't help his grade point average for senior year, but his mother's determination to keep her precious son away from intoxicants had heightened his interest in underage drinking.

Besides, he figured, he wanted to see what would happen to Race when he was no longer restricted by his own severe ethics. It could be interesting.

-

The rain had stopped a while ago, but it took Spot a long time to recognize that, what with the distractions of Johnny Depp's teeth and now his third beer bottle held loosely in one of his hands. He wasn't quite sure how he had come to have said bottle, taking into account the problem of being eighteen years old and looking like a twelve year old girl. He vaguely recalled Racetrack saying that he had some at home, but that couldn't be right. Race looked like a twelve year old girl too.

"Spot, you are so fun," Bumlets slurred, patting Spot on the head. "I love you even more than I love your car."

"Thanks," said Spot, starting to feel all warm and fuzzy inside. Nobody had ever liked him more than his beautiful Mercedes. He suddenly felt extremely cool.

Swifty, who wasn't quite drunk yet, looked on as Bumlets restyled his hair while looking into one of the black puddles that spotted the dark pavement. They had decided to camp out behind the cinema with their booze, away from the streetlights and subsequent discovery by the cops, and now they were all seated lazily on the damp asphalt under a large tree.

Spot looked up at the sky, the real enormity of it hitting him for the first time in a long time. "Do you think there're aliens out there?" he asked as he took another swig from his beer. "Those constellations look like my freckles," he added, hoping that he sounded cool and that Racetrack would be impressed.

"Yeah, there's gotta be aliens," said Race, looking imploringly at Spot as if waiting for him to confirm this idea.

"I'm an alien," Bumlets sniggered, and then he cracked up, leaning heavily against Swifty.

Race didn't seem to hear him. "We can't be all alone out here, right?" he said, and his face was oddly blank. "There's gotta be someone—someone else, something; I mean, the universe is big," he finished lamely. His vocabulary seemed to have diminished slightly as a result of the large amount of alcohol he had consumed in a very short period of time.

"Yeah, I think there is," said Spot. He somehow felt that Race needed to be comforted, although he couldn't imagine why.

Race's image doubled and tripled and then slid back into one again, and Spot closed his eyes and watched the explosions of color before him. He felt rather sick, dizzy, and he didn't want any more beer. He wanted to black out and he almost did, but then he felt Racetrack's hand on his wrist.

"What?" he demanded, but Race was smiling goofily and he nodded at Bumlets and Swifty.

Spot glanced at the two boys and saw that Bumlets was saying something softly, looking down at his fingers as he traced them across the concrete, and then he looked up and met Swifty's eyes and they seemed to freeze for a moment. They looked as though they were about to kiss, their faces inches apart, and yet Spot knew that that could never happen because Bumlets was in love with Johnny Depp and Swifty was a hetero.

Spot had always maintained that no matter how drunk you got someone, it's not going to be enough to brainwash them into going against their own sexuality. Well, not unless they were so smashed they couldn't tell male from female, but Swifty certainly hadn't reached that point. It took more than alcohol to change something as huge as a sexual orientation.

Swifty didn't seem to care that much right now, though...

Bumlets pulled away suddenly, pirouetting, and ripped off his t-shirt. "I feel like I've been inside for, like, a gazillion years," he sang, and he began to do one of his ballet routines right there on the damp concrete in his black Converse sneakers in the middle of February. He was ridiculously beautiful. He had such grace.

"You are so weird," Swifty laughed, but he looked like he had something really fucked up going on inside of him.

His face swam in front of Spot's eyes, and Spot groaned and threw his half-empty bottle against the back of the cinema building. It smashed with a sound that seemed magnified by the night, echoing in his seemingly empty head. "This was such a bad idea," he murmured, but even has he said it he seemed to forget what he was talking about.

Racetrack, on the other hand, drained his third bottle and reached for a fourth. "I love cheep beer," he slurred.

"Don't you wanna, like, stop?" Spot asked dully. He felt as though he were floating on an ocean, being dragged in and out as the waves broke. He closed his eyes and pictured it. It made him think of that song "Champagne Supernova."

"Nah," said Race, popping the cap off his bottle. "I'm totally addicted... Alcoholism runs in th' family, anyway. Doesn't matter. Stupid, really..." He trailed off and looked at the bottle in his hands. "I pro'lly should stop, though," but he took a swig anyway.

"You've got alcoholics in the family?" Spot asked, incredulous. No one had ever told him about Race's family before, and he was intrigued as to what kind of people gave birth to such an unusual, beautiful combination of wits, stubbornness, attitude, sensitivity, and mud-brown eyes.

Race nodded slowly, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "My dad's a big one; gets drunk all the time." He took another swig. "T-totally fucked. Don't doubt my brother's g-gonna end up the same way, but fuck him..."

Spot rubbed his neck awkwardly. "When—"

"And you know, it wouldn't bother me, it really wouldn't," Race plowed on, waving his bottle around slightly. "It he drank himself s-senseless every night n' left me the fuck alone, I wouldn't give a shit."

"Does he... I dunno, beat you and shit?" Spot asked, wondering if he was pushing his luck, waiting for the bomb to go off.

Racetrack stared at him, the bottle inches from his lips, thinking slowly. He was gripping the wall behind him with white knuckles. "Yeah," he said after a long pause, and took another swig of his beer. "Yeah, he does."

Swifty and Bumlets pirouetted by—or rather, Bumlets pirouetted by and Swifty did a sort of drunken time-step. Both seemed entirely unaware of what Spot and Race were talking about, and it occurred to Spot blearily that perhaps it was better that way.

"F-fucked up," said Race softly, and he began to taken another swig but Spot took the bottle gently away. "What?"

"This shit ain't good," said Spot.

"Look, man," Race began hotly, grabbing for the bottle, "you're not—"

"Just shut up. I think we should go home."

Spot knew that the wasn't nearly as drunk as the other three were, and as this had been his idea in the first place he felt kind of responsible for them; he decided that he should be the designated driver for the four of them. "Uh-uh," said Bumlets upon hearing this plan. "No dice. Me and Swifty'll walk 'cause I don't wanna get into a car accident and die or somethin'."

"Yeah, maybe you're right..." Spot mused.

"I gotta piss," said Swifty idly, crossing his legs.

Spot groaned. "Okay," he said, trying to think clearly. "Bumlets, take Swifty to the bathroom. I'm gonna walk Race home, and we'd all better pray to God that my car's still safe n' sound when I come get it tomorrow morning. If it ain't, I'm castratin' all of you."

Bumlets seemed to like this idea, and he took Swifty' hand and lead him back into the cinema to use the restrooms.

Race was still looking kind of hollow, either lost in thought or too drunk to function. Or maybe both. Spot helped him up and slung his arm over his own shoulders, and he asked, "So where do you live, again?"

"I dunno..." Race groaned, leaning his head against Spot's shoulders.

"You don't _know?"_

But Race was out, back into his little horrified drunken state, and Spot sighed in defeat. He slid his arm around the other boy's waist for further support and recognized the fact that he was going to have to take Racetrack into his own home for the night.

Ordinarily he would have been thrilled at the prospect, he realized dimply as he helped Racetrack to walk, but he wasn't horny right now. Surprisingly, all he felt was concern and something along the lines of sympathy, and all that mattered to him was getting this boy somewhere safe, somewhere away from the alcohol and from his father, he supposed.

Racetrack seemed to be asleep on his feet when the reached Spot's house, almost his entire body weight leaning against Spot's for support. Spot tried as hard as he could to maneuver the darkened house and climb the stairs without waking his parents, and it felt like eternity before he finally pushed open the door to his bedroom.

He lay Race down gently on the bed, and Race looked up at him with red-rimmed eyes and said, "Are you gonna sleep with your hat on?"

Spot smiled slightly. "No," he said, pulling it off along with his t-shirt and climbing softly onto the bed next to Race. "No, I wasn't planning on it."

"Cool," said Race, and he patted Spot's head sleepily.

Spot laughed, and after a moment he reached over and put his arm around Race's waist. And Race let it stay there.

And that was cool, too.

-

Shoutouts:

_riah-the-bee:_ Aw fuck, you got me there. Yeah, I switched Mush from a popular jerk to an adorable outcast and completely forgot that I had him in two places at once. Not cool! But thanks for reviewing, man! Yay for Bumlets's hair!

_LadyRach:_ Ha, yes, Princess Bride kicks ass beyond belief. I know what you mean about the outcast groups, too—I mean stereotypically they're always there, but I don't really have on in my school either. We all, like, cherish the gay guys. But maybe that's because they're all in musical theater, and kick ass at it. ...Anyway, thanks for reviewing!

_Liams Kitten:_ "...? what mental hospital did SHE escape from?" Except totally NOT, because you are my favorite reviewer in the whole wide world. And the fact that you laughed at the slitting wrists joke just makes you even more amazing at life. And I still can't get over how funny your story about ice cream trucks and Jewish songs is. We are so getting married.

_Iambic Pentameter:_ Gotta love The Princess Bride, man. Star Trek! HA! Racetrack would kick ass in Star Trek! I see a great future for that idea in a fic, what do you think? Anyway, thanks for reviewing, I love you!

_Raven's Light:_ Thanks so much for reviewing!

_Dreamer110:_ "Aw, I love Race... He always seems to be in denial about something. I just adore the kid." That is the most perfect description of Racetrack Higgins I have ever heard in my life. I love you. Thanks for reviewing!

_Unknown-Dreams:_ Dude, a review for each chapter—that is so the way to win me over. Thank you so much! Oh, and I agree, I am so incredibly turned on by the idea of Bumlets doing ballet. I always though it was some weird kinky thing about me, but maybe I'm not alone!

_Braids21:_ You know, it totally breaks my heart every time I have Jack being a dick to Spot and Race and everyone. I think I might magically have him being like, "APRIL FOOLS I'M NICE! YAAAAAY!" Anyway thanks for reviewing, I love you to death! (Update your stuff soon, all right? You're killin' me here!)

_Erin Go Bragh:_ You give the longest reviews EVER, and I love you for it. Hooray for summertime, thanks so much for reviewing!

* * *

**Author's Note:** Ha, where the hell did this come from? Kinda long, coming from me. I dunno what inspired me. Anyway, I love you all; leave me a review and I'll make everyone chocolate-chip cookies! 

-Saturday


	6. Chapter Five

**Disclaimer:** The newsies belong to Disney, any song lyrics belong to their respective bands/artists, and I own Elio and Race's daddy.

**"Clearly I remember picking on the boy  
He seemed a harmless little fuck  
Oh, but we unleashed a lion  
He gnashed his teeth and bit the recess lady's breast  
How could I forget?  
And he hit me with a surprise left  
My jaw left hurtin', dropped wide open"**

**-"Jeremy," Pearl Jam**

* * *

Waking up in the morning was a painful process for Racetrack. He seemed to drag himself through heavy layers of consciousness, black and blue, and the closer he came to being fully awake the more his head seemed to hurt. By the time he was able to force his eyes open, he felt as though his brain were about to split in two and he groaned slightly and squashed his face into the pillow. 

It was Saturday morning. The sun was barely up, the ceiling was bathed in pale gray light, and he was convinced his head was about to explode.

He swore under his breath and closed his eyes, trying to figure out why he was in such excruciating pain. His first thought was his father, but he had been asleep when Race had last seen him and was therefore incapable of beating his son this hard. Besides, last night Race hadn't been home, he had been at the movies, and after—

He opened his eyes and rolled over slightly in bed, and immediately found himself face to face with a pair of the most startlingly gray eyes he had ever seen in his life. He jumped slightly, and the owner of the eyes smirked and said, "Good morning, sunshine."

Racetrack stared at Spot, absolutely astounded and not bothering to hide it. He looked at Spot's half-grin, and the way his hair was starting to grow back a little, and his pale, shirtless perfection, and finally at the way his arm was resting on Racetrack's waist.

And Racetrack erupted.

"WHAT THE FUCK AM I DOIN' HERE?" he demanded, sitting up in bed with a jolt that made his head throb even more painfully. "WHAT THE FUCK— WHERE _AM_ I, AND WHY AM I HERE, AND IS THAT A VELVET REVOLVER POSTER ON YOUR WALL?"

Spot, who was looking rather startled to say the least, said, "Yes," and made to get out of bed. "You like Scott Weiland?"

"I'VE HAD A CRUSH ON HIM SINCE EIGHTH GRADE," Race snapped in an accusatory fashion, as though Spot had no right to share an interest with him. He got out of bed, practically threw Spot's t-shirt at him, and began pacing the room anxiously. Finally, he turned back to the other boy, whose shirt was half on, and demanded, "COULD YOU PLEASE TELL ME WHAT THE FUCK IS GOING ON?"

"Dude, shut up!" Spot said hurriedly, closing the door to his bedroom and praying to God that his parents wouldn't wake up.

"YOU HAVE NO R—"

"SHUT UP, MAN!" Spot strode over to Race, clapped one hand over his mouth, and grabbed his arm with the other one. There were a few minutes of silent struggle, and then Race licked Spot's hand and Spot pulled back with a muffled yell. Race flung him away.

"Oh, _that's_ mature," Spot grumbled, wiping his hand on his pants.

"You," Race pointed an accusatory finger, "are a psychopath, bisexual, exceedingly sketchy, nearly bald rapist!"

"And _you_ are a nineteen year old who just licked my hand!"

They glared at each other, and then Spot sat down and crossed his arms over his chest. Finally, Race said furiously, "Okay, could you please—"

"Whisper!" Spot hissed, glancing anxiously at his closed door.

Race rolled his eyes and said in a slightly quieter voice, "Could you please explain to me _what the fuck is going on? _Why am I here? What was I doing last night? Did you give me a date-rape drug or just alcohol? How did—"

"We got drunk after 'Charlie and the Chocolate Factory,' you couldn't tell me where you lived, so I brought you here instead of leaving you in the slush outside the cinema," said Spot tiredly. "What would you have preferred I do?"

"BUMLETS AND SWIFTY KNOW WHERE I LIVE," Racetrack exploded, "YOU COULD HAVE ASKED THEM, YOU MORON!"

"THEY WERE TOO BUSY FLIRTING IN THE CINEMA'S PUBLIC BATHROOMS," Spot snapped, and then looked horrified and hastily lowered his voice. "Dude, if my parents wake up I am going to be burned at the stake. Could we please discuss this later?"

Race paused, confused, ignoring Spot's request. "Swifty's straight, though, isn't he?" he said slowly.

Spot shrugged.

"Hard to tell, sometimes," Race murmured, more to himself than to his current roommate. His head throbbed unpleasantly, and he looked at Spot and demanded, "SO YOU SLEPT WITH ME!"

"Literally, yes!" Spot yelped.

"DID YOU RAPE ME?"

"If you would shut the fuck up for a minute, you would notice that you are, in fact, fully clothed," Spot returned acidly, starting to grow irritated. He rubbed his head and groped for his hat. "I didn't rape you, I barely touched you, I was—"

"Barely," Race snapped.

Spot hesitated, going slightly red. He didn't know what to say. He stared at Race for a moment, wordless.

In the ended he decided on honesty. "All right, so I couldn't entirely resist taking advantage of your lack of... _hostility," _he said, and he tried to make it sound like it wasn't a big deal. "Anyway, I was just trying to get you somewhere safe 'cause you..."

But he stopped, because Race was suddenly looking shocked and almost hurt. It was as though a switch had been flipped, a wall that ordinarily screened his face from revealing emotions had been removed and he was injured and vulnerable. "I can't believe you would do this to me," he said in a surprisingly soft voice, sounding betrayed.

Spot blinked. "Do what to you?" he asked, confused.

But the wall was back up, the anger had returned, the old Race was back. "Everything!" he snapped, starting to pace again. "The movie, the car, you know you really had me fooled, Conlon. You really got me there, I was almost convinced that there was a chance, maybe you were different, maybe you were an okay guy, I was almost starting to, I don't know, _like_ you."

Spot opened his mouth to speak, but Race cut him off. "And it was fun last night, it really was, and if you'd left it like that I never would have guessed or fucking _cared_..." He paused for breath, running both hands through his hair. "But _this_, Conlon, this is too much."

"What is?" Spot managed to get in, bewildered.

"I can't fucking _believe_—" Racetrack seemed at a loss for words, and he stared at Spot. "Physical abuse I can deal with, I get enough of that in my life. But— pretending to—" He choked slightly and spat out, "Pretending to be bisexual so you could fuck with my mind, screwing the faggot for laughs—"

"What the FUCK, Race, that's not—"

Race looked for a moment as though he were about to punch Spot. "Go tell your friends about how clever you are," he said blandly. "I can't— I— Jesus Christ, Conlon, let me out of your fucking house."

He pushed the door open and made his way angrily down the hall and the stairs, and Spot followed desperately behind, trying to explain himself without injuring his pride too much. Ultimately, it was the accusation of, "Why the fuck are you so paranoid!" that caused Race to turn around in the middle of Spot's kitchen. Mrs. Conlon looked up from her coffee and smiled warmly. Gabriel had a new friend!

"You want to know why I'm so paranoid?" Race demanded softly. "Has it ever occurred to you that what we social failures receive from the upper-class might have more than just short-term effects on our psychologies? I have been— mocked and tortured ever since I stopped growing, ever since I came out, ever since I _started school_, and now you, Mr. Prom King himself, show up and expect me to believe that you're not only bisexual but fucking _attracted _to me!" He ran a hand through his hair, breathing heavily, looking like he was fighting to cover his emotions again. "Conlon, I can't do this anymore," he said in a voice that Spot had never heard him use before. "You've fucked me up. Every day you guys push me farther— what do you _want_ from us? Do you want us to change and conform and melt back into the middle class? Because we've tried that, all of us, and you continue to single us out, you won't let us be normal but you despise our distinctiveness."

Spot stared, astounded.

"We're just scapegoats for you fuck-ups," said Race, his voice breaking, "we're constant victims. It's hard enough dealing with the public humiliation, but when you worm into— into something as deep as— I don't know, _emotions? _Taking advantage of the fact that I was—" He stopped abruptly._ "_That's just sick. You are sick."

You are sick.

"Race..." Spot moaned, unable to think of anything else to say.

Racetrack looked at him with disgust and then turned, crossed the kitchen ("Good morning, Mrs. Conlon"), and left the house, closing the door neatly behind him.

There was a long, long pause.

Then Mrs. Conlon turned to her son, shock written all over her face. "Would you like some breakfast, sweetums?" she asked shakily.

Spot looked at her. "Ah... No thanks, Mom. I think I'm gonna go back to bed."

-

Racetrack moved down the sidewalk, hardly feeling as though he were using his legs at all. He seemed to simply melt, having a small breakdown now that he was out of Spot's sight. He felt as though his insides were collapsing.

He had seen a remarkable amount of abuse throughout his life, both from home and from school, but none of it had managed to hit him as hard as this had. Sure, they'd called him a faggot and accused him of sleeping with his fellow outcasts, but they had never truly taken advantage of his sexuality like this, they had never hit him emotionally like this...

He stopped at the intersection and looked blankly to see which direction he would have to turn, thoroughly miserable. He had actually almost been learning to enjoy that Spot Conlon's company, he had actually almost been falling for him—

"Fuck this," he said.

He started walking again, but he had never consciously considered his mild attraction to Spot and it wasn't a good feeling to consider it now. He felt so betrayed, taken advantage of— what had he ever done to deserve this?

He'd expected more extreme forms of torture when he'd come out about his homosexuality a few years ago, but this was insane... This wasn't _right, _it didn't make sense that these people were absolutely dedicated to making his life as miserable as possible. There was a fine line between bullying and sadism, and they seemed to be flirting with it. He couldn't imagine taking pleasure from doing this to someone; he was a human being, despite their insistence otherwise. He couldn't imagine what he could have possibly done wrong.

"Oh, right," he murmured as he turned onto his street, "this isn't about me, is it?"

And clearly, it wasn't. He wasn't abused because he was gay, or because he was just over five feet tall, or because he listened to Pink Floyd and The Shins; he was abused because Oscar, Morris, Jack, and Spot were all just as bad as he was. They made him look like shit in order to remain in a position of power, in order to hide their own fucked up problems. This wasn't about his idiosyncrasies, it was about _their_ idiosyncrasies, their issues. He was a randomly chosen victim.

He had reached his house. With a sigh he pulled the key from his pocket and slid it into the lock, and opened the door. He hated this place more than anywhere else in the world.

"Well. Welcome home," said Elio coolly, looking up from the book he was reading.

"Thanks," said Race acidly, and he closed the door behind him and looked around. "Where's Dad?"

Elio jerked his chin in the general direction of the kitchen. "Man, are you in deep shit."

"Shut up, shithead."

His brother shrugged noncommittally, his black eyes gleaming as they returned to his book. _Angela's Ashes, _by Frank McCourt. Always the intellectual, Race thought grimly. But I read that book the summer of freshman year.

From the kitchen came the harshly shouted demand of whether Anthony had returned home yet, and Racetrack answered hollowly, dreading what was going to come but not wanting his brother to see. Elio began to smirk slightly without lifting his eyes from his novel.

Mr. Higgins entered the living room and both his sons looked up at him with contempt. He was a substantial, dark-haired man with a Race's smooth, dark Italian complexion, and he would have been incredibly handsome but his face was currently spotted with rough stubble and his eyes were bloodshot. He glared at Racetrack, and Racetrack glared right back, hands in the pockets of his blue jeans.

Mr. Higgins towered over his son. "Where the fuck have you been?" he asked softly, his voice delicate like the calm before the storm.

"Spot Conlon's house," Race answered truthfully.

Elio scoffed. "Who the hell is that? A new boyfr—"

"Elio Provenzo Higgins, you stay the fuck out of this," Mr. Higgins snapped, his voice thundering. Elio rolled his eyes, put down his book, and stalked out of the room. His father turned back to Racetrack. "Anthony, you fucking stayed out all night with your faggot friends. What ever gave you the idea that you had the right to do something like that without asking permission first? Fucking _moron_, if your mother were still alive—"

"Yeah, yeah," said Race in frustration, trying to get this over with. "I didn't think—"

"Of course you didn't think!" Mr. Higgins snapped. The two stared at each other for a moment, and then he narrowed his eyes and said, "So. Spot Conlon, huh?"

"Yeah."

"So tell me, Anthony," he sneered, "what exactly intrigued you to go fucking a different boy, for a change? Will I get to meet this one?"

Race closed his eyes, trying to stay in control. "Dad..."

"Oh, no, don't tell me," Mr. Higgins interrupted scornfully, holding up a hand. "Pretty boy, green eyes, right?"

"Gray," Race murmured.

Mr. Higgins sighed, running a hand through his hair. "Waste of a son..." he muttered tiredly. "Worse than your brother— unbelievable. I can't believe a boy of mine ended up sucking cocks."

The words stung, and Race was astounded at how placidly his father was able to say them. They sounded almost rehearsed, and they were, really, because they had been said so many times. He didn't answer, thinking about Spot's eyes, and Mr. Higgins continued, "I don't think I even want to know what you were doing last night, you fag. Just—"

"We went to see 'Charlie and the Chocolate Factory,'" Race snapped. He couldn't see what his father was getting at; it sounded as though he were just putting his son down for the pure joy of it, and every word hurt. "And then we got drunk, and Spot and I slept together."

Mr. Higgins stared at him. "You actually slept with him?" he demanded, and Race could hear the tension rising in his voice. He hadn't expected that. Race pretended to be a badass, but he was a virgin and a relatively good kid; he had never slept with a boy before. He enjoyed the fear in his father's face.

Race nodded delicately. "It was fucking amazing," he said, and he didn't know what he was saying anymore, he felt as though he were defending himself and his sexuality and he was torturing his father, "We stayed up practically all night and you should have seen his body, it was so incredibly pale and smooth and—"

"SHUT THE FUCK UP, ANTHONY, I DON'T—"

"He was fantastic," said Racetrack hotly. "I think you _should_ get to meet him, maybe you'll understand why I—"

"ANTHONY HIGGINS, SHUT THE FUCK UP OR YOU'RE GOING TO REGRET—"

Racetrack stopped talking for a moment, and he and his father looked at each other in fury. Finally, Race said, "I was great, too. I'm the best piece of ass you're ever going to—"

And then he felt his father's fist smash into the side of his face, and he staggered backwards against the door, the doorknob hitting him hard in the lower back. He cringed with pain, and his father raised his fist again and he lifted his hand in defense. "I _never_ want to hear about your faggot tendencies again, y'hear?" Mr. Higgins snapped, and he swung his fist low and caught his son in the stomach.

Race choked and bent double.

"Y'HEAR?" Mr. Higgins yelled, swinging again.

"I—" Race gasped, unable to get the words out. There seemed to be some sort of blockage in his throat. Mr. Higgins lifted his fist again. "Yeah, I hear you!" Race yelled.

His father stopped, breathing heavily, his dark handsome face contorted in fury. "Get the hell out," he said softly, grabbing his son by the front of his shirt.

Race glared, this was too much, he couldn't handle any more, he felt the anger building up in his chest and he pulled back and punched his father as hard as he could across the face. "The alcohol," he said, breathing heavily, "has fucked up your brain worse than you'll ever understand."

"IF I HADN'T PROMISED YOUR MOTHER I WOULD PROTECT YOU, ANTHONY, YOU'D BE OUT OF THIS HOUSE—"

"Dad, I _want_ to be out of this house," said Race, and he wrapped his arms around his own aching chest and staggered out of the house into the cold February mist.

If he had been anything other than a Higgins he would have been concerned about what he had just gone through, but for almost as long as Racetrack could remember this had been his life. He knew he would come back that night and his father would be drunk stupid, too drunk to remember that he had kicked his son out earlier that same day.

"I just can't stand Elio's smirk," Race murmured, head throbbing from the combination of his hangover and his father's fist. He kicked some slush on the driveway. "Fucker..."

He crumpled to his knees on the sidewalk and pressed his forehead against the cold concrete, shivering, the world spinning. He could honestly say that he had never felt worse in his entire life, and right now all he wanted to do was melt away, evaporate, disappear for a while and let his troubles fade in the same fashion. "I want to die I want to die I want to die," he murmured, and he almost did die, for a moment.

And then he heard it.

He pretended not to notice, but then he heard it again, louder, and he couldn't bear to raise his face because that would make it true, without doubt, and this was the last thing he needed right now.

"Oh God, no," he groaned, and he honestly thought that he was going to die this time, except his problems wouldn't fade, they would intensify.

He heard it again, absolutely undeniable: Jack Kelly's high-pitched chuckle.

He sat back on his heels and looked up the sidewalk, and Jack Kelly and the Delancey brothers looked back at him in surprise, their smiles fading immediately. It was suddenly brought to his attention how incredibly stupid he must look, sitting on the sidewalk in the same wrinkled Led Zeppelin t-shirt he had been wearing yesterday, his hair windswept and a deep purple bruise blossoming magnificently across his cheekbone.

A little blood dribbled down onto the concrete before him, and he touched his face, feeling the warm, sticky substance on his upper lip. His nose was bleeding profusely.

Holy shit, he realized. _I'm not going to be able to defend myself. I'm about to die._

he realized. 

"Well, waddaya know, Kelly?" said Oscar, a smirk sliding immediately across his face and replacing the previous expression of mild surprise. "Looks like our faggot friend's been tailin' us. Maybe he's lookin' for a kiss...?"

"Aw shut up, Oscar," said Jack, sounding annoyed, and he was looking at Racetrack with slight confusion.

Race understood. They never bumped into each other this often— he rarely saw them out of school, and yet within the last twenty-four hours he had already endured three visits from the trio. Finding Racetrack kneeling on the cold, wet sidewalk on an obscure street by the center of town had surprised Jack; he had never been the type to enjoy having something sprung on him like this, and he was clearly rather at a loss as to what aspect of Race's fucked up personality he would mock this time.

Racetrack didn't wait for the attack. "Morning, gentlemen," he said smoothly, standing up with difficulty and brushing off his blue jeans. "I'm sorry I can't hang around to chat, but I happen to be— to be busy at the moment."

His brain didn't seem to be functioning properly. He tried to pretend his head wasn't swimming, his face wasn't throbbing, but he was losing coherency and Jack seemed to be seeing something in his dark eyes that was giving his weakness away. Jack had always been smarter than the Delanceys.

"Busy?" he repeated skeptically. "What were you doin' lyin' on the sidewalk, Higgins? Jackin' off or somethin'?"

"Heh, _Jack_-in' off..." Morris chuckled, and Oscar smacked him.

Race wiped blood off his face with the back of his hand, opened his mouth, waited for the witty response to come out, but nothing happened. His breathing was growing ragged and he hurt all over, and his jeans were wet at the knees and they were cold. He was freezing, shivering, Jack looked at him in surprise, confused, waiting.

"Hey, what the fuck is wrong with you, man?" Oscar said finally.

Morris looked slightly alarmed. "He's totally fucked up."

Race's knees gave out and Jack caught him reflexively, and then looked shocked and dropped him onto the cold pavement in disgust. Race felt an explosion of pain where his already bruised face hit the concrete, and he tried to lift himself but someone kicked him. "What the hell, you high on coke or somethin'?" Jack demanded. "Little fuck-up..."

"Do you think we should get help, man?" Racetrack heard Oscar say softly, as if from a great distance.

"Why the hell would we get help? It's his own fault that he..."

And then it all started to fade out, and Racetrack realized dimly that they were going to leave him there, they were going to dump him and God knows how long he would be there... He wondered vaguely at how much they really must hate him to do this to him.

And then he heard a familiar voice yelling angrily, and he felt another pair of arms wrap around him, not particularly strong arms but protective arms, lifting him up. He thought of Spot for a moment, but then he remembered that Spot wouldn't protect him, Spot was...

But he couldn't remember what Spot was, and after a moment it all faded to black.

"Snitch!" Skittery yelled in alarm, raising Racetrack into his arms. "Snitch, he's out cold!"

Snitch looked back at them, biting his lip. He turned back to Jack, Oscar, and Morris, who were looking stunned, and he swore at them and yelled for them to fuck off, which they did as quickly as they could. "God, Skittery, what do we do?" he asked, anxious, turning back to his friend.

"No idea," said Skittery. His wiry glasses were sliding down the bridge of his nose.

They both looked down at their unconscious friend, and Snitch had to look away, nauseated with his concern for his friend. Skittery continued to stare and held him closer to his chest. "We should take him back to my place," Snitch said finally. They looked at each other, both wondering what the hell had happened to Racetrack.

Skittery glanced at his watch. "Man, not even ten o'clock yet," he said. "Quite a day, eh?"

Snitch managed a weak smile.

* * *

Shoutouts:

_Erin Go Bragh: _Hell yeah, go Beatles! They so kick ass. We should have a party; have you seen any of their movies besides "Yellow Submarine"? "Help!" is, like, the funniest movie I have ever seen in my life. You would be really into it. Anyway, thanks for reviewing!

_Kid Blink's Dreamer:_ Hey, thanks so much for the review! Much love!Dakki: I still can't get over that you love Johnny Depp's teeth as much as I do. And how fantastic your reviews are. And how much I love you. I can't even form a coherent shoutout, I love you so much. You really must write to me about our Kowboi Klub masterpiece, because I am going into withdrawal from your E-mails and your brilliant writing! (Even though I read your McKinley House fic last night. Hahaha, Dave eating babies…)

_Queen of Doom: _Why, thank you!

_'Ru:_ You are talking to an enormous Princess Bride fan here. Can't you just picture Racetrack as Fezzik? Haha, thanks for reviewing!

_Unknown-Dreams:_ Darling, there is absolutely no need to hint at the adorableness of Bumlets and Swifty as a couple. Lucky for you, I realized what a cute couple they were long ago. (Hint hint, potential future swumlets...) Thanks so much for reviewing!

_antiIRONY:_ Ha, one of the first people intrigued rather than disturbed by the idea of Spot with no hair. Thanks so much for reviewing!

_Liams Kitten:_ Darling, if you ever stop writing long reviews I will cry myself dry. Hooray, I love you! We shall have a wedding and rejoice with Cherry Garcia ice cream and snogging newsies. Thanks so much for reviewing!

_alliemon:_ Hahaha, that was beautiful... Thanks so much for reviewing!

_Chiquita Corpse:_ My dear, who doesn't love angst? This is one of my angstiest fics ever, so I'm glad you're liking it, and I'm glad you're intrigued by Spot's lack of hair, heh... Thanks so much for reviewing!

-

**Author's Note: **Okay, I confess. Dakki inspired me. She hadn't E-mailed me in about three days, and I was in such beautiful-ficcage-withdrawal that I had to make my own rather pathetic attempt at beautiful ficcage. Of course, this ended up rather violent and depressing...

Anyway, I'll have you all know that this fic is going to have an incredibly happy ending. I love you all; please review, my pretties!

-Saturday


	7. Chapter Six

**Disclaimer:** The newsies belong to Disney, any song lyrics belong to their respective bands/artists, and I own Snitch's mom and the Kurt Cobain poster.

**"But we only stay in orbit for a moment of time  
And then you're everybody's satellite  
I wish that you were mine"**

**-"Recovering the Satellites," Counting Crows**

* * *

Snitch's mom was tall and brunette like her son, but nobody ever remarked on any similarities between the two of them. It had taken Skittery a long time to realize that the reason they did not appear to resemble each other was that Mrs. Lawrence had straight, relatively normal teeth, whereas her son sported what could be a pair of the largest front teeth the world would ever see. Apparently it made all the difference. 

Skittery thought about this fondly as he entered the Lawrence household, still holding Racetrack tight against his chest. Perhaps he was only thinking about Snitch's teeth to keep himself from worrying about Racetrack— if he was, however, it wasn't working.

It took a lot more than teeth to keep Skittery from freaking out.

"Dear God, Graham, what happened to Anthony?" Mrs. Lawrence was demanding of her son, bustling anxiously around the kitchen and moving things around for no apparent reason. "How long as he been like this? Did you two—"

"Mom, we did not do this to Race," Snitch sighed. "We found him with Kelly and the Delanceys, it looked like they beat the shit out of him." He led Skittery to the couch and tossed the excess pillows onto the floor, musing, "It's weird, though. He's always been able to defend himself."

Skittery didn't say anything and propped Racetrack up awkwardly onto the couch. His handsome, bruised face fell against a pillow, his features blank, and he looked distinctly dead with the blood smearing his cheek and his lips slightly parted. Snitch and Skittery looked at each other, and then Skittery dropped to his knees and checked for Race's pulse on his wrist.

Mrs. Lawrence reentered the room with a washcloth and nudged Skittery out of the way, beginning to dab at Racetrack's face.

"Mo-om, there's no point cleaning him up if we're not sure he'll make it!" Snitch snapped. "Shouldn't we call 9-1-1 or—"

"He's breathing, Graham, and I believe your friend just checked his pulse?" Mrs. Lawrence shot her son a look and then resumed cleaning the caked blood off Racetrack's face. She took a folded blanket from the armchair by the window, unfolded it carefully, and tucked it around his body. "Does his mother know that he's here?"

"His mother's dead," said Snitch.

Mrs. Lawrence looked up, startled. "I had no idea! Oh my goodness, this is awful... His father must be worried sick about him. Graham, do you mind calling Mr. Higgins—"

"I don't think we should call Mr. Higgins," said Skittery quietly.

Both Snitch and his mother looked at him. "Why—" Snitch started.

"I just... don't think it's such a good idea. He's..." Skittery looked helplessly around the room. "I think we should wait until we get Race back to consciousness before we do anything concerning his family."

Mrs. Lawrence looked slightly panicked. "If you're sure... I'm trusting you, Mark."

Skittery nodded, running a hand through his rather eccentric dark hair. He liked Snitch's mom; she always seemed to flustered, and yet so sure of herself. He hadn't know these two qualities could coexist peacefully.

Snitch was also looking flustered. He squirmed, shifted his weight, glanced at Skittery, peered over his mother's shoulder, asked repeatedly if Race was going to be all right. Skittery watched him with interest, and Snitch continued on in this manner until his mother turned around, drew herself to her full height (which was quite considerable), and snapped, "FOR CHRIST'S SAKE, GRAHAM! IF YOU AREN'T GOING TO MAKE YOURSELF USEFUL, GO INTO YOUR ROOM WITH MARK AND CLEAN UP THE MESS YOU TWO MADE LAST NIGHT!"

Both boys jumped and obeyed quickly, dashing out of the room without so much as a backwards glance at their unconscious friend on the couch. They hurried into Snitch's room and closed the door, and Skittery couldn't stop himself from sliding the lock into place for good measure.

He stared at Snitch and said, "Your mom is fucking scary, man."

Snitch laughed, displaying his adorable teeth, and for a minute they laughed and forgot Racetrack was lying on the couch, unconscious. And then they remembered and their grins faded.

Skittery coughed. "We should... clean up," he said in a lame attempt to keep himself from panicking, gesturing helplessly at Snitch's room. He was nervous, having a quiet mental breakdown which he knew Snitch could probably see in his dark eyes. There was a certain amount of accuracy in the name Skittery, as much as he tried to deny it.

"Yeah, we should," said Snitch after a minute.

They looked around the room— at the unmade bed and rumpled sleeping bag on the floor, at the empty bag of M&M's, at the TV with the DVD cases stacked high on top, at the CD's and the occasional vinyl record scattering the floor, at Skittery's froggy boxers falling out of his bag. Snitch blinked and said slowly, "Wait. If your underpants are there, then what are _you_ wearing?"

Skittery tuned bright red and proceeded to put on some music.

And so, with Alice In Chains and leftover M&M's, they proceeded to clean up the room. Or attempt to, anyway. Their previous sleepover (or "manly get-together," as Snitch liked to call it) had left the room looking as though it had been hit by a tornado, and as neither of them were particularly organized people to begin with, pulling everything back together proved to be more difficult than it had initially appeared.

"Man, did I even cause half of this damage?" Skittery demanded, trying to put back up an enormous poster of Kurt Cobain. "I don't remember disturbing anything on the walls during our mad sex last night."

"Mark, honey, you wonder why people call us gay. And yes, you did knock down the poster when you threw the clicker at my head halfway through 'Return of the Jedi,' remember?"

Skittery chose to ignore this reminder. "We are so gay, Snitch."

"Oh my God, we're fucking FLAMING," his friend agreed.

"We're like Keanu and River in 'My Own Private Idaho.'"

"See? There you go again with the obscure references to little known artsy films and whatnot!" Snitch accused as he gathered up the DVD's and put them back into their cases. "I've told you a million times, it's antisocial because nobody knows what the fuck you're talking about!"

Skittery tugged hopelessly at the sheets of Snitch's bed, wishing it would miraculously make itself. He pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose. "I'm sorry, I'm trying! Look, it's a 1991 film starring Keanu Reeves and River Phoenix— I assumed you would know about it."

"River who?" Snitch asked distractedly.

"My _God_, Snitch," and Skittery flung himself despairingly onto his friend's still unmade bed. "The world has become a tragic, tragic place when a child of the 80's has never heard of River Phoenix. Ever seen 'Stand By Me'?"

Snitch carefully stacked his CD's onto a shelf, clearly only half-listening to Skittery's words. "Yeah?" he said.

"Chris Chambers?"

"That was _him?_ Jesus Christ, how old is this kid!"

"He died in '93 of a drug overdose, he was in his early twenties," said Skittery tiredly, retying his shoelace. "We watched him today in 'Last Crusade,' he's young Indy at the beginning! Man, I can't believe you didn't know who he was."

"Sorry, man! I'm into music, not pretty boy addicts," said Snitch with a smirk.

"He was not!" Skittery gasped, looking genuinely hurt.

"Was so."

"He was an incredible actor!"

"And you're a shameless fairy."

Snitch grinned at Skittery, who pouted and examined Kurt Cobain's hair with apparent interest. After a few minutes of comfortable silence, Skittery ran a hand through his hair and said in an oddly hollow voice, "Do you think we're being apathetic?"

"How so?" Snitch asked.

"I'd almost forgotten Race's on the couch in there, like, dead, and all we're doing is talking about our gayness," Skittery shrugged, trying to calm himself down. "It just... I dunno, it doesn't seem right."

"Aw Skitts..." Snitch sat down cross-legged on the bed next to his friend. "Look, man, I don't think there's that much we can do for Race right now, y'know? Granted, he looks like he fell off the roof or something, but my mom's good with this kinda thing. She helped Miles when he smashed fist through a window... I think Race'll be okay."

Skittery didn't say anything, and he resumed his detailed examination of Kurt Cobain's hair. He didn't look reassured.

Snitch watched him for a moment, the way his wild eyes darted across the poster, and then he lunged forward, tackling him back against the pillow. "I DIDN'T DO IT!" Skittery yelled, and then Snitch was on top of him, pinning him down against the bed.

"You so want me," Skittery said, narrowing his eyes.

"I so do," Snitch laughed. He looked at his friend, and then he said, "Why do you say that?"

"Why do I say what?"

"'I didn't do it.' You always yell that when you're surprised."

Skittery seemed to think this over for a moment, and then he pushed Snitch off him and sat up, leaning back on his elbows. "I guess I do say that a lot, don't I? I guess I'm kinda paranoid... I guess my nickname's right, they labeled me right, didn't they?"

Snitch looked at him. "Do you want me to stop calling you that?"

"No! No, it's fine— it's true, isn't it? It's my name, it's me. I'm totally skittery, man." He shrugged, poking absently at Snitch's pillow. "I don't really remember when I started trying to shield myself from blame... but eventually it sorta just became a habit."

Snitch nodded, thinking that it was the only thing to do.

Skittery was still looking at the poster on Snitch's wall, but he seemed to be looking past it somehow, lost in thought. "No, that's a lie," he said suddenly, bringing his eyes to meet Snitch's. "I know when it began. Man, I haven't thought about this in so many— You remember when I moved here in, like, eighth grade?"

"Yeah?"

"Well two years before that, my younger brother Frankie was found dead in my backyard."

Snitch stared at his friend, absolutely stunned. He couldn't think of anything to say, but he had the feeling that even if he did give words of comfort, Skittery wouldn't hear them.

"He was such a cute kid, too, cuter than I ever was. I was a scrawny, dark-haired guy, but Frankie was blue-eyed and smiling and he used to do this dance—" Skittery swallowed with difficulty, but he was smiling. "He used to do this dance. Dad would put on that Louis Prima song, y'know, 'In the meantime let me tell you that I love you: buona sera, senorita, kiss me good night' and Frankie would do the most adorable dance..."

Skittery shook his head experimentally, not meeting Snitch's eyes. "They said it was no one's fault when he died. He was just a little guy and he was allergic to bees and he just..." He gestured weakly. "We were playin' baseball, just the two of us, 'cause he told me he wanted to be cool like— like me, and so I was teachin' him how to pitch, and then I went inside to take a piss and told him to practice, and when I came back out he had hit the nest of bees with the ball and they were flyin' all around him, and I tried to save him but it was too late— it'd happened just a minute earlier, if I hadn't washed my hands for so long— I'd deliberately taken a while so he'd have more time to practice, but then I came back and— and—"

Skittery gulped and continued hastily, "And he looked at me and he was cryin', and I tried to block the bees from gettin' him but they stung me and they stung him and that was it, he was dead, gone— and— and they never loved me as much as they loved him, I knew that, he was the cute one, little Frankie with his blue eyes and his Louis Prima dance—"

Skittery shuddered slightly and Snitch looked on, horrified, frozen, appalled that he had never known, never cared to ask. "Skitts—" he began, not knowing what he was going to say.

"No," said Skittery. He pressed the back of his hand against his cheek. "It was fucked up. For days— _months_ afterwards I'd have this dream, and Frankie's there and the bees are coming for him and he's yelling, 'Save me, Markie, save me!' but I can't, or I won't, I don't even know, but it's all my fault. I started thinking my parents hated me for it, that they knew it was my fault, and I started yelling, 'I didn't do it!' every time they came near me 'cause I thought they would _kill_ me, I knew they hated me for it..."

"God, Skitts, they don't hate you," said Snitch numbly, because Skittery looked as though he were about to cry and Snitch had never seen his friend, his stoic, clever, inventive friend cry and he didn't want to see that, ever. "God, man, I didn't— I had no idea, I didn't mean to bring it up, I didn't realize— Fuck it, don't cry or anything, man, I love you."

Skittery looked at him. "You are so gay," he said.

"I don't care if I'm being more flaming than Bumlets when he wears his sweatpants with _Popular_ across the butt in glittery pink writing," said Snitch. "Half my friends are fags, anyway, it's bound to rub off on me. Anyway it doesn't matter— man, I'm sorry."

"It's fine."

"Your brother's death wasn't your fault."

Skittery looked back up at Kurt Cobain, and Snitch watched him, wondering why the hell shit like this happens to good people. He suddenly realized why Skittery was so concerned about Race, despite the overwhelming likelihood that the tough little Italian jackass would pull through— Race had collapsed just as they had arrived. What would have happened if they had come just ten minutes earlier? Five?

It suddenly seemed all the more urgent that Racetrack return to consciousness _now, _that he make it and that everything turn out all right, because Snitch knew that another failed rescue on Skittery's behalf might just finish him off.

As if in answer to his thoughts, there was a soft knock at his door. He and Skittery looked at each other. "Graham?" said Mrs. Lawrence, her voice muffled by the door. "Anthony's begun to murmur swears an something that sounds like Italian under his breath. Is that a good sign or a bad one?"

Snitch glanced at Skittery, who was beginning to smile.

"That, Mom," he said, "is a very, very good sign."

-

Racetrack was being awkward, Snitch thought. It made sense: he had always been a very independent type of guy, and he was clearly a little embarrassed by his collapse. He was thankful for their timely rescue, of course, but at the same time he was looking sullen, wasn't talking much.

Skittery, too, was being awkward, but for a much more logical reason, mused Snitch. He clearly had never told anyone about the recurring nightmare about his brother, and though Snitch was flattered that he had been the chosen confidante, he still rather regretted bringing the painful memories up at such an inopportune moment. Skittery was looking almost relieved, but he was also looking more tense, wasn't talking much.

And Snitch sat between the two boys on the couch, the most awkward one of all because he knew that it had been he who had caused both of his friends to feel so miserable.

_Damn,_ thought Snitch dimly,_ I really need to work on my social skills._

thought Snitch dimly, 

Mrs. Lawrence was scurrying around the house making everyone hot chocolate, even though all three had politely refused her offer. It could not have been more painfully obvious that she was trying as hard as she could to fill the silence, make the situation more comfortable, be a good hostess; it had gotten to the point that she was singing "Everything's Coming Up Roses" as she bustled about the kitchen. Snitch squirmed.

Race was looking awful. His bruise had deepened to a dark purple in the center, fading out to maroon, red, and his skin was tinged yellow at the edges. He was looking rumpled and his blue jeans were filthy, and every once in a while he would sniff quietly, wiping his nose on his sleeve.

He still hadn't explained what had happened to him.

"Here you are, boys," said Mrs. Lawrence warmly, handing them each a mug of hot chocolate and forcing them to accept a chocolate-chip cookie each. "Eat— you look dead on your feet, all three of you. Anthony, would you like to borrow one of Graham's sweatshirts? Are you cold?"

Ordinarily Race would have said, "No, baby, I'm sizzlin' hot" or made a crack about the likelihood of his fitting into something of Snitch's, but he simply said, "I'm fine, thanks, Mrs. Lawrence" and stared into his mug of hot chocolate.

Snitch stared into his mug as well. _I hate hot chocolate._

He glanced at Skittery, who looked back with a weak, forced smile. He looked over at Race, who was still looking fixatedly at his hot chocolate. "So, Race, ah... How's your head?" Snitch asked in a falsely cheerful voice.

Race looked at him witheringly. "Wonderful."

Right. Not the smartest thing in the world to say. Snitch pursed his lips and tapped his foot and looked at Skittery again, and Skittery pretended not to notice. Mrs. Lawrence hurried past them, searching for her scarf, pulling a glove on, saying she would be back in ten minutes, she needed to pick Miles up from his guitar lesson... They nodded and Skittery said, "Thanks, Mrs. Lawrence" and she was gone.

A dull silence settled over the house, broken only by the muffled sound of the car starting in the garage. All three of them sat there unmoving on the couch, until they heard her pull out of the driveway and drive away, showtunes blasting from her speakers. And then she was gone.

Snitch tapped his foot again and waited for someone to speak but no one did, so he looked at Skittery again. Skittery looked back this time, eyebrows raised in frustration as if to say, _What!_

Snitch couldn't contain himself any longer.

"Jesus Christ, Race!" he ejaculated. "Are you not gonna give us any explanation whatsoever!"

Racetrack looked up from his hot chocolate and eyed Snitch calmly. "Probably not," he said, shrugging. "I wasn't planning on it, anyway. I figured that situation was pretty self-explanatory."

"You weren't planning on— self-explanatory—" Snitch gesticulated wildly, too worked up to find the words to express himself. "We saved your ass!" he finally exploded. "We saved your ass and nobody ever has to save your ass, but we did it and I think we deserve at least some sort of clarification here! Dude, the Delanceys and Kelly never beat you up this bad, they only do shit like this to— to _Bumlets_, or someone who's too sweet and graceful to defend himself the way you can, there's gotta be something goin' on that I'm just not seeing here, man."

"Well if there is, it's none of your business," Racetrack snapped.

Snitch stared at him. "None of our _business? _Does the fact that we cared enough about you to drag you out of there mean _nothing _to you?" He stood up and began pacing the room, pulling agitatedly at his t-shirt. "We're your _friends_, man, what's your business becomes our business because we gave a shit about what happens to you, okay?"

"You tryin' to tell me that you don't keep anything to yourself?" Race demanded. "Just because your friends care about you doesn't mean they need to know every little detail—"

"But this isn't a little fucking detail, the physical abuse you're getting from the dicks at school happens to be sort of a big deal," Snitch cried, throwing his hands into the air.

"I'm alive now, ain't I?"

"Well yeah, but next time you might not be, and we want to— to be able to be there to protect you," said Snitch, his voice breaking, and suddenly he wished for a moment that he could make it clear to Race how much this meant to him, and especially to Skittery. He forced himself not to look at his friend and instead continued emphatically, "I don't care how much of a blow this is to your pride, Race, but I have to know. I don't mean to mother you—"

Race broke in, standing up angrily, "Well then shut the fuck up mothering me! I don't need a fucking mother! I haven't had a mother since I was six years old, and I certainly don't need a new one from you!"

"Race," said Skittery quietly, "did your father do this to you?"

Racetrack stopped, staring at Skittery, and Snitch stared at him too and knew, suddenly, that he was right. And in the silence that succeeded Skittery's rather rhetorical question came a sound from outside the house, a sound that caused them all to move to the window to look.

Spot Conlon was sitting on the Lawrence's doorstep, one knee bent and the other resting on the step below, and he was playing a mournful and yet oddly familiar tune on a harmonica which he held loosely in both hands. He didn't seem to notice the three boys who were staring at him, openmouthed and stunned, through the window, although none nearly as stunned as Racetrack, who looked as though he had just swallowed a gecko.

As they watched, Spot took the harmonica away from his mouth and began to sing. He had a regular voice; there was nothing spectacular about it, and yet the words were so heartfelt that they couldn't help but gape at him.

Well I guess you left me with some feathers in my hand  
It didn't make it any easier to just leave me where I stand  
I guess there might not be too many who will stand beside you now  
Where'd you come from? Where am I goin'?  
Why'd you leave me till I'm only good for waitin' for you?  
All my sins, I said that I would pay for them if I could  
Come back to you  
All my innocence is just wasted on the dead and dreamin'

Snitch turned to Skittery, whose glasses were sliding down the bridge of his nose. "It's— it's Counting Crows," he stuttered, and Skittery raised his dark eyes to him, but this time they were smiling.

And the two boys turned in unison to stare at their friend Racetrack Higgins.

Race stiffened when he felt their eyes upon him, and he glared at them as if daring them to speak. "Who's the crazy bloke with the harmonica?" he snapped, and with that he stormed off in the direction of the downstairs bathroom.

Snitch glanced at Skittery. "True love?" he said.

"Oh yeah, baby."

* * *

Shoutouts:

_ForgetRegret:_ Haha, gotta love exclamation points... Hey, just out of curiosity, is your name in any way connected to RENT? Because I will love you even more if you're a RENThead. That would be beautiful. Thanks so much for reviewing!

_andthenyouwokeup:_ Yeah, this could be one of the angstiest fics I've ever written, I'm so glad you like it! HA! I have to read that fic, what's it called? I'm such a Princess Bride fan... Thanks so much for reviewing!

_Erin Go Bragh:_ Quite possibly the shortest review I have ever received from you. Homework! You can't have homework in the middle of August! Man, I'm starting on the thirty-first and I thought I had it bad... Ah well, much love to you, you kick ass beyond belief. Thanks for reviewing!

_Dreamless Mermaid:_ Yeah, it took me a really long time to get used to the idea of slash, it just seemed so weird... I definitely prefer fluff to the heavy stuff too, but I'll read both. Newsies slash can be so cute, lol. Anyway, thanks so much for reviewing!

_Dakki:_ AHH I LOVE YOUR REVIEWS! And you reminded me that it's my fault that Knox and Dalton got together, and that just made my day 'cause it reminded me of that adorable fic I read about them... Idiosyncrasies, that's what it was called! SO CUTE! And yes, Race has so become Bender and I didn't even notice and I just think that's so cute. I love Bender. And you. So much. (PS. Happy birthday Peter Weir! I'm so in love with him. He did The Mosquito Coast, Witness, and The Trouman Show, too! HOW COOL IS HE!)

_Liams Kitten:_ DON'T DIVORCE ME BEFORE OUR WEDDING, DAHLING! This update is for you, because you give beautiful reviews-- like, beyond belief. I so love you.cbs3: Aww, I am so touched! Man, the minor characters from Newsies are the best ones! Bumlets, Swifty, Snitch, Skittery, Specs, Dutchy... How have you been living without them! Well anyway, thanks a million for the reviews!

_singin'-newsies-goil:_ HURRAH FOR LORD OF THE RINGS! Oh now I'm thinking about Aragon... He was really hot. And those movies are beautiful, wow, I really need to watch them again. Thanks so much for the reviews, I love you beyond COMPREHENSION!

_Kid Blink's Dreamer:_ Thanks so much, I love you!

_alliemon:_ Ohh it cut off your review? That explains a lot! Haha, well I appreciated it anyway, it was pretty funny. And yeah I agree, domestic violence pisses me off so much... especially because my family is so not-violent and nice to me, I can't imagine living like that. So fucked up. Anyway, thanks so much for reviewing!

_Queen of Doom:_ Ha, don't worry, Race shall be back on his feet and psycho-Italian-jackass very soon! Thanks for the review!

-

**Author's Note:** Just to clarify— Spot and Race didnothave sex, the touching and shit they were referring to was just when Spot had his arm around Race. Yeah, I have yet to write a slashy sex scene, believe it or not. I think I'm gonna wait on that, 'cause I'm only fourteen and I highly doubt I'd be able to write it accurately.

My monthly bleeding, peach pie and vanilla ice cream, and "Friend of the Devil" and the acoustic version of "Mr. Jones" playing on repeat gave birth to this chapter. Oh, that and my adoration for Liams Kittens. Please leave a review!

-Saturday


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